


[Unfinished] The Road Less Traveled

by kisahawklin



Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [35]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Balthazar (Supernatural) - Freeform, Bobby SInger - Freeform, Boyking!Sam Winchester, Captive Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural) - Freeform, Crowley (Supernatural) - Freeform, Cursed Sam Winchester, Demon Deals, Drunkenness, Ellen Harvelle - Freeform, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Home, Homophobia, Hospitals, Injured Sam Winchester, Jo Harvelle - Freeform, John Winchester Dies, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Other, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Winchester losing his virginity, Sam goes to college with John's blessing, Secretive Sam Winchester, Secrets, Shapeshifter, Teenagechesters, Temporary Character Death - Sam Winchester, Voyeurism, Weechesters, parental violence against a child (slap), sexual contact between underage siblings in a non-sexual setting, violence against a LGBTQ+ character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: Sam is accidentally cursed as a child and it changes everything. Well, almost everything.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/56814
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a lot of potentially triggery material. Please protect yourself. I will add tags and warnings at the top of every chapter with potentially triggery subject matter. If you have a particular trigger you would like me to warn for, please email me at kisahawklin@gmail.com.
> 
> This is a huge story, and there are a lot of alternate POVs where I needed to work something out that was happening somewhere else so I could move the plot forward. These will be sprinkled in here and there to places where they apply (and hopefully don't spoil the reader). 
> 
> THIS FIC IS INCOMPLETE. I stopped writing on it in summer 2019 when I fell briefly into Good Omens fandom and then headfirst into The Untamed/MDZS/all the C-dramas ever. I'm currently head over heels in that fandom and after the mess that was November 2020 I doubt I will come back to this. That said - there's over 60k or more here, and a lot of it is really solid, and soft between the brothers, and I think, perhaps, might be something people want to read. I only got to Cas at the very end of the fic and that's pretty much where I got stuck, so there's not very much of him for a story that probably was going to end up Wincestiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Notes:** The non-con is "cursed object made them do it" and it is only mentioned in the very first scene. It is mention of extreme underage (ages 7 and 11) sexual contact for not-purposely-sexual reasons. Also, this scene includes a parent slapping a child, again, right off in the first line.

~~~

_Black Earth, Wisconsin, October 1990_

_Crack._

Dean's head snaps to the side with the force of his father's slap. His cheek burns, a deep, aching reddening on top of the blush that was already there.

"You _never_ touch your brother like that again, do you hear me?"

"But Dad–"

"No buts, Dean. That's disgusting."

Dean swallows, blinks against the tears standing in his eyes. "I didn't know what else to do." It's not like he _wanted_ to touch Sammy – but he'd been screaming in pain, his back arched so high Dean thought he might crack in half. He's screaming again now that Dean's not touching him anymore, bending his tiny body obscenely up into the air, screaming Dean's name, using up all the air in the room so Dean can't breathe.

It's a spell, Dean thinks, swiping at his eyes and feeling the shame all the way to his bones. He thought it might've been a cursed object, but Sammy's smarter than that, and Dean had ripped apart everything Sammy owned and hadn't found anything new or weird. He'd done everything else he could think of, slapped him, shook him, poured cold water on him, drawn a protective pentagram on the floor and put Sammy in the middle of it. Nothing worked, none of it made Sammy stop moaning or shivering, louder and louder except when Dean touched him, to move him or check his forehead or just assure himself Sammy could still open his eyes.

 _"Please,"_ Sammy'd said, in a whispery moan. It was a creepy, scary sound, and Dean could tell Sammy didn't even know what he was asking for. Hell, Dean barely knew, and he'd played Seven Minutes in Heaven with three different girls at Beth Russell's twelfth birthday party. He didn't know what to do, but Sammy kept getting louder and louder, the moaning turning to crying and then screaming, high-pitched jags of sound that made Dean cover his ears. He'd had to do something; the TV was turned all the way up and Sammy was still loud enough that someone was going to call the front desk. Or worse – the cops.

Dad mutters an incantation over a hastily prepared bowl of herbs and assorted junk and there's the slightest grim satisfaction that Dean was right – it's definitely a spell. Sammy's screams stop suddenly and the canned laughter pouring out of the TV makes Dean want to throw up. Sammy sighs out a breath and relaxes down into a loose sprawl on the floor, unconscious and breathing evenly. He probably won't even remember.

Dean will never forget.

~~~

Sam doesn't take it too badly when Dean doesn't hug him anymore. Dean'd already been pulling away, he's almost a teenager for chrissakes, and it's not like they were big cuddlers before. Sam learns how to ride out the nightmares when Dean stays turned to the wall, giving Sam his back as a signal he needs to figure it out on his own.

Sam does, talks himself down in mumbled whispers, learns to breathe slow and deep and fool his body into sleeping again.

When Dean's the one with nightmares, though, he still ends up with an armful of Sammy, every time. He's punched Sam more than once – he flails when he wakes up from bad dreams – but Sam's never flinched, and he never backs off, though he ducks his head so he doesn't meet Dean's eyes, tucking it under Dean's chin when he snuggles in closer.

Dean lets him, if he knows Dad isn't coming home for a while, choking on the shame of being that close to Sam. As soon as Sam drops off, Dean eases himself out of his grip and goes to sleep on the other bed, still guilty because now the pillow smells like Sam and that's the only reason he can fall back asleep.

By the time Sam's a teenager, Dean's gotten a handle on the nightmares – or Sam's become used to the no-touching rule, too – and the midnight cuddling slows and then stops altogether.

It makes it easier – Dean can slap Sam on the back, check him over for injuries, do all the things normal brothers are supposed to do and not feel guilty. He never forgets his dad's words, but it doesn't matter because he'll never have to touch Sam like that again.

~~~

_Beulah, North Dakota, January 2000_

Dean's pretty sure Dad's proud of his prowess with girls. It's pretty easy to figure out what they want, the whole bad boy image does most of the work, especially once Dad gives Dean his leather jacket. The girls are always all over him after that, and as long as he's careful, that's all Dad cares about.

He's more worried about Sam, who's awkward with girls and seems to have picked up some weird need to be in a _relationship_ before he has sex. Considering how long they stay in one place, it shouldn't have really surprised him when the virgin-eater in North Dakota goes after Sam, even though he's nearly seventeen.

"Seriously, Sammy?" Dean asks, wiping the blood off his jacket. "What are you, saving yourself?"

Sam isn't even embarrassed, and Dean's really lost his touch if he can't embarrass the kid on such an easy topic. He's starting to freak out about that – Sam's getting more and more stubborn, spending more and more time in libraries and with books, and Dean has a bad feeling about it. Dad and Sam barely talk outside the screaming matches where Sam insists he's going to college and Dad looks so mad Dean has to make sure he isn't going to raise a hand to Sam. He's only hit Dean twice, but that's two more times than he's hit Sam and Dean is damn well going to make sure it stays that way. Days like those Dean just makes sure Sam has a clear path to the door so he can leave and walk it off.

"There's nothing wrong with being a virgin," Sam growls, dusting himself off and staring at Dean, daring him to say otherwise.

"Well clearly there _is_ ," Dean answers, spreading his arms wide, the machete in his hand pointing at the decapitated hag on the floor. "Monsters can sniff that shit, Sammy, so it's time we popped your cherry."

~~~

_Martin, Tennessee, February 2000_

"No."

Dean clenches his hands into fists and releases them purposefully. Sam isn't supposed to get to him, he's supposed to get to Sam. "Come on, she likes you. All it takes –"

"All it takes is coercing a girl I like into having sex with me, knowing we're leaving in less than a week," Sam says. "All it takes is me being a complete douchebag. I don't want to, Dean. I'm not you."

"Hey," Dean says, clenching his fists again. "This isn't about me. Virgin-eating hags can't smell _me_ from half a mile out."

"Yeah, it's about me, and just because you have no problems ruining a girl's reputation doesn't mean I'm going to."

Dean rolls his eyes. God he hates teenagers, and high school, and whatever bullshit TV Sam's been watching that means he's worried about girls' virtue.

"Maybe I can find a guy to mess around with," Sam says, knocking Dean's entire world sideways with a comment that was terrifyingly effortless in its delivery.

"What?" Dean asks, involuntarily taking a step closer, staring Sam in the eyes, daring him to look away first. "Are you a fag?"

"That's a slur, Dean," Sam says, _not_ looking away, not even flinching. If anything, he looks more stubborn – just like Dad, and that's a fucking fist to the chest, how similar those two are. "It's gay. And I'm not. I'm just not that picky about the genitals of people I get involved with."

"You're a virgin," Dean says, still caught in Sam's eyes, but now _he_ 's the one who's a rabbit in a snare. Sam's daring him, giving him that cold look that says he'll be disappointed if Dean doesn't get this right. "At sixteen. Almost seventeen. That's pretty damn picky."

Sam rolls his eyes and Dean knows he's dodged a bullet. He hasn't thought about Sammy doing the nasty, oh, _ever_ , but if he had thought about it, he would've assumed it was a girls-only thing. He should've noticed if Sam…

"Wait, have you had _boyfriends_?"

The last eight or so towns they've been in, Sam's had girlfriends. Sometimes it'd be a girl in the library, Dean would catch them playing footsie in the cubicles, or sometimes a girl at school, some chick Sam would stay late to impress, or go to her house to meet her parents. Dean'd met some of those girls. Some, but not all.

"Yeah," Sam says, thankfully interrupting the train wreck of Dean's thoughts and actually looking sheepish – probably for lying. "I just told you they were girls."

"Chris?" Dean asks. He wonders how many of the girls were actually boys.

"No, Christine was a girl. Amanda's real name was Dave, though." The sheepish grin turns sly, like Sam's proud he actually pulled one over on Dean – and Dad. The thought brings Dean up short and he can feel the blood drain from his face. Shit, Dad is gonna blow a gasket over this.

As always, Sam can read his mind and starts shaking his head right away. "Don't you dare," Sam says. "Dean, you owe me that. You can't tell Dad."

Dean swallows. He's shit at keeping secrets from Dad – _especially_ about Sammy, and this…

"I'm not kidding, Dean," Sam says. "I don't want him to know."

Dean swallows and runs a hand over his face. He can do this. Dad doesn't ask about this kind of thing, all Dean has to do is keep his mouth shut and let Dad make the same assumptions Dean's been making since Sam hit puberty and started mooning over girls. Boys. Boys and girls. He closes his eyes and sighs out a deep breath. This is going to take some getting used to.

~~~

_Middlesex, Pennsylvania, March 2000_

"I am not going to a whorehouse, Dean," Sam says, and Dean is absolutely sure that he is just being contrary for the sake of being contrary. He never used to be a pain in the ass for no reason.

"There's a reason they're called professionals," Dean says. "Ten minutes and you don't have to worry about it anymore."

"Oh, is that how long your first time took you?" Sam asks, sneering. "I bet you were what, thirteen?"

Dean had been fifteen, actually, getting the time and space before then with Sammy on his hands had been impossible. And he'd spent the better part of an hour making out with Maria Lopez in the back seat of her father's car to get her worked up enough to get to third base, and then an excruciating half an hour trying to figure out what to do with his hand down her panties. "My virginity is not the issue," Dean grumps. "If not Miss Daisy's, then let's go out to that bar off the highway and I'll score us a couple of babes."

Sam looks at Dean with his I-can't-even-believe-we're-related face, and Dean slams the book shut he's been pretending to read. "What, Sam? Are you bound and determined for it to be a guy? You want me to find you a gay bar out here in the sticks?"

Sam huffs, his jaw stuck out mulishly. "I don't want to have sex with someone I don't give a shit about, okay?"

At least he's blushing, so he knows he sounds like a total girl, but he's also wearing his most stubborn face so Dean knows there's no point in pushing the subject, at least right now. He grabs his jacket and heads out, sliding behind the steering wheel of the Impala with a bad mood and not enough ideas about how to get rid of it. He spits up gravel as he throws Baby in reverse, apologizing to her even as he peels out of the parking lot, gunning her up to seventy and settling in for a drive.

~~~

_Mount Pleasant, Michigan, April 2000_

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel again, wondering what in the hell is taking Sam so long. He saw some of the guys from the swim team heading out already, and normally Sam's the first one out the door after practice – he has hours of studying in front of him when he gets back to the motel.

When the girl Sam's dating comes out, looking upset and shaking her head, Dean turns the car off, alarm bells going off in his head. "Kerry!" he calls, waving at her when she looks his way. "Have you seen Sam?'

She stops and waits for him to jog up to her. "Hi Dean."

"Hey," he says, trying not to be annoyed with her and failing. "Were you waiting for Sam?"

"Yeah," she says. "We were going to go to the library."

 _Damn it, Sammy, you couldn't have called?_ And then the alarm bells go off again because there's no way Sam blew off his girlfriend _and_ Dean. He doesn't know what else to say to the girl, so he just turns away and sprints to the doors of the natatorium. They're locked, of course, but it's not like that's a challenge for him anymore. It's only a few seconds before the door clicks open for him, and he's running full tilt by the time he hits the showers. He can feel it now, something is wrong with Sam, something he should've figured out sooner, and when he races into the locker room proper, it takes everything he's got not to pull his gun.

"Sam?"

The place feels empty, so that much is in Dean's favor. He's just doing a cursory check of each row of lockers where he hears the groaning echoing in the shower area he just came through. "Sam?" he yells, running back that way. "Sammy?!"

More groaning, louder now, and Dean finally sees Sam's gangly legs sticking out of one of the private shower stalls. His heart kicks into overdrive when he sees rivulets of pinkish water flowing toward the drain. He throws the curtain open and swears when he sees the shape Sam's in. Totally naked, the shower still going, bruises already coming up all over his arms, legs, and torso. He's on his back, shivering and groaning and there's a weird dent in his forearm that means it's broken. The anger that comes over Dean is ice cold. When he finds out who did this, he's going to burn them _before_ he kills them, kick them into their graves while they're still screaming.

"Nnnn Dad," Sam slurs, and Dean's rage threatens to overwhelm him. Sam can't even speak – his face is severely messed up. Dean turns the shower off and jimmies himself into the tiny space with his brother. Judging by the groaning that ends in whining as Dean gets under him and helps him to his feet, he's got cracked ribs, too. They start the plod over to the locker area, Dean keeping hold of Sam any way he can with his hands on Sammy's slick skin. There are bruises and small cuts everywhere, and his ribs are clearly hurting him, so Dean keeps shifting, eventually letting Sam rest most of his upper body weight on his shoulders while he grabs Sam's hip and mashes Sam into his side, helping Sam's wobbly legs as they take one achingly slow step after another to the benches.

"Dad," Sam gets out again, and Dean finally lets the word sink into his brain.

"He's back at the motel, Sammy, he's gonna see it."

Sam actually glares down at him, through a swollen eye and bloodstained face. He mumbles something Dean can't catch any of except "hunt."

"Oh, yeah, because I'd let you get beat up like this and not have a mark on me." He sits Sam down on the nearest bench and leans back against the lockers to take a better look, keeping his hands on Sam just in case. Nasty black eye, cut on the other cheekbone that's sharp-edged; either a ring or a cowboy boot. He puts his money on boots, considering the bruises and the ribs – he's been kicked for sure. Dean is going to murder whoever did this and not even feel a little bit bad. "I'll deal with Dad – he's not gonna care until you're cleaned up anyway."

Sam chokes out something, words that are nothing more than gibberish, and spits blood. His face is swollen beyond recognition. "Let me see your pupils," Dean says, prying each eye open in turn to make sure they're dilating in the light. The right one is fine, but the left one is sluggish. Concussion, probably. "Damn it."

Between that and the arm, there's no way they can stitch him back together themselves.

"This is bad, Sammy. I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Nnnnnnnnnn," Sam groans, but he's too limp to even hold himself up, there's no chance in hell he's going to be able to make it to the room so Dad can patch him up. Dean's not even sure Dad _can_ patch up this mess.

"You don't get a say, Sam, this is a concussion and broken arm, this shit is –"

Before he can even finish his bitching, Sam passes out and Dean has to shift under the dead weight to make sure Sam doesn't end up on the floor again.

"Sam? Dean?" Kerry's voice echoes. "Are you in there?"

"Call an ambulance," Dean yells, "Sam's hurt."

~~~

"No, sir, it happened before I got there," Dean says for the tenth time, staring at Sam so his dad can't see his eyes. "I don't know what happened."

"Dean," Dad accuses, but before he can say anything else, Sam wakes up, his eyebrows scrunched together and his one good eye fluttering open, and the matter is dropped.

"Sammy," Dad says, smiling down at him, ruffling his hair gently. Dean swallows. He's way too old for hair-ruffling now, but he's only a little ashamed to say he misses it. "How do you feel?"

"Like crap," Sam croaks, and Dean automatically picks up the cup of water that's been sitting next to the bed since they brought Sam back from the CT scan. Sam takes the straw into his mouth and gulps it down greedily, not even reaching for the cup, just letting Dean hold it for him.

"You took one hell of a beating," Dad says, and damn if that isn't pride in his voice. Sam's good on offense, with his recently-long arms, but he's still skinny enough that getting pounded is not something he takes too well. The swelling on his face is still pretty bad, but the fact that he's getting whole words out is a relief.

"Yes, sir," Sam answers when he finishes the whole glass of water. Dean pours another and offers it, but Sam shakes his head, aborting mid-shake and wincing.

"The police are here," Dean says, glancing at Dad before raising his eyebrows at Sam. Dad and Sam both know they can't get involved with the police no matter what and Sam nods once, very slowly. He raises the arm with the cast they put on while he was unconscious and gives it a quick once over.

"I'm good to go," he says, trying to sit up but failing miserably, fumbling his hand out to catch Dean's arm for support. "Let's get out of here."

Dad looks pissed but he knows Dean's right. The nurses have been stopping in every ten minutes since the CT scan, checking to see if Sam's awake yet and giving Dean and Dad appraising looks. Dad went out to catch a glimpse of the scan, make sure it wasn't anything more than a concussion, so they know Sam's okay enough to heal up at the motel. Dad's only got another week on this hunt anyway, Dean and Sam can stay in and watch movies and order Chinese.

Dad looks out of the small room and pulls his head back quickly, motioning Sam back onto the bed. Sam goes, lying back and faking unconsciousness with eerie ease. The nurse comes in, gives Dean and Dad their onceover and checks Sam's monitors. "His heart rate's up," she says, sounding cheerful. "That's a good sign. He'll probably wake up soon."

"Great," Dean says, giving her his best flirtatious smile. "We've, uh… we've been worried."

"Oh, it's not that unusual," she says brightly. "And it's a lot less scary than the patients that are conscious but blacked out. They freak me out. Ask the same questions over and over and over again." She grins back at Dean shyly, and Dad gives him a slow nod behind her back. Right, he's the distraction. He hopes Dad saw a way out on one of his jaunts through the halls because Dean sure as hell didn't. 

"Well," Dean says, "I sure could use a cup of coffee. I don't suppose you can point me in the right direction?"

The nurse offers to bring him a cup of the staff coffee, no charge. "I could really use a walk," Dean says a little desperately. "And some pleasant company." He says that with a shit-eating grin directed at his dad.

She bites her lip, clearly thinking about it, so Dean gives her his most winning smile. "Just a little while," he wheedles, and she gives in with a raised eyebrow, tilting her head with the _follow me_ nod. Dean follows.

There are a lot more people milling around than he expects; the doc and seven more people in variations of scrubs, lab coats, and stethoscopes, plus two non-scrub-wearing women flitting from room to room and the two cops that are waiting to take Sam's statement. He takes the long way back to Sam's room, poking his head in every door he can find, hoping for some kind of break. He gets one when he finds a locker/office-type room that has piles of scrubs in one of the cupboards. He picks up a pair for Sam and a couple of white coats for him and Dad while he tries to think of some way to distract the dozen or more people roaming around the emergency room.

They discuss it while Sam changes, Dean keeping his eyes on the floor and pacing. He retraces his steps, trying to remember any routes out of the area that weren't watched by security or secretaries. They hear a commotion outside the room and Dad peeks his head out; a gurney flies by with a child on it, pale as death. Dean takes a headcount of the folks running by – doc, all the nurses except one, one of the other women and one of the police officers. He can hear someone yelling things from the desk in the back – Dad perks up at something, though Dean's not really paying attention because the door to the ambulance bay is wide open.

"Let's make a run for it," Dean says, glancing briefly at Sam's bare feet. He hadn't thought to grab Sam's clothes from the locker room and there weren't any spare shoes in the car. Jeans and underwear, shirts and jackets, but no shoes. Another thing he'll have to add to the emergency kit.

"All right, let's go," Dad says, looking both ways. "It's clear right now, but who knows where that second cop is."

They make it out with surprisingly little fuss. The woman sitting at the desk doesn't even look up from her computer as they hurry by and the cop is nowhere in sight. The bay is wide open and there's no one in it; they could steal an ambulance if they felt like it.

They circle back around the hospital to the parking garage, Sam quiet and choosing his steps carefully, holding his arm in close to his chest. Dean wants to give him a hand, let Sam put some weight on him, but he knows Dad wouldn't approve.

They split off when they hit the garage and Sam follows him to the Impala, not that it's some big surprise. Dean gets a little closer, offering support by proximity, but he lets Sam take the lead on how much he needs. They get to the car without Sam taking him up on his silent offer, and he folds up in the passenger seat like he used to when he was small enough to fit in the well.

"You can't say anything," Sam says, a low rumble in his chest.

Dean doesn't answer for a moment. He hates having to choose between Dad and Sam. It's happening more often these days, and he finds it harder than ever to pick Dad, which makes him feel more and more guilty. "I don't know anything," Dean answers, and while it's a half-truth, it's close enough that he'll be able to stick with it when Dad presses them.

"Good," Sam says, scrunching down further in the seat.

~~~

_Reed City, Michigan, April 2000_

The bad thing about Sam being laid up is that he's the one that walks out on the fights. He's the one that knows to leave before anything unforgivable is said. Dad doesn't ever give up, he will argue until he passes out from hunger before walking away – or more likely start throwing punches. Not at his sons, not yet, but Dean's seen it in his eyes a couple of times and he's pretty sure Sam has too.

Sam's reclining on the bed with their bags, hastily packed up and driven an hour and a half away from the town where Sam's high school was. Dean knows at least half of his unhappiness is leaving the school behind; his girlfriend, that calculus teacher he liked, swim team. His entire body is one tense line, his mouth screwed tightly shut in a miserable scowl. Dean wonders if part of it is the pain. They didn't get him any painkillers and it's been a couple of hours since the hospital. He's got to be feeling the bruises and cracked ribs.

"Answer me, boy."

Dean checks the impulse to roll his eyes. He doesn't want to take a punch any more than Sam does. He knows Sammy's not going to answer, and Dad's pushing him, asking the same questions over and over, knowing it's not going to get any kind of good result.

"Dad, let it go," Dean cajoles, putting on his best charming grin. "He's not in any shape to –"

Dad glares at him and Dean shuts up, dropping the grin and staring back stubbornly. He turns away and grabs his med kit, pulling out the bottle of Vicodin he's been hanging onto for months. Sam'd wanted to throw it out, just because it's a little past the expiration date. He'll be sure to give Sam hell about that when he's feeling better.

He gets a glass of water from the bathroom and gives Sam two of the pills, Dad scowling as Dean crosses the room to his brother. Sam takes them with an even scarier scowl, for once – thanks to his black eye and split cheek. They should be enough to knock Sam out in half an hour and maybe the tension that's stretched over the room like a second skin will go away. Maybe Dad'll go out for a drink and then Dean will be able to let his guard down for a little while.

He sits down to wait.

~~~

Dean rolls over again, wondering where the hell Dad is. He'd stormed out when Sam's breathing had eased into unconsciousness, his faking only good enough for the nurses, not for Winchester radar. Dean'd assumed Dad went out to find a bar, somewhere to get a few beers and someone to gripe to about his god-forsaken children.

Dean stays awake until three, eyes sore and gritty from staring at the Godzilla movie with the sound off. He isn't even watching, just staring, seeing the flickering lights of the screen reflected off the walls on either side of him. He's listening to Sam breathe, a whistling kind of noise that worries Dean a little bit, but not enough to wake him from a sound sleep.

Dean's still in his jeans, the only concession to maybe going to sleep the fact that his boots have been abandoned at the end of the bed. His dad's bed, really, the one he'll have to crawl out of if Dad makes his way home from the bar tonight. Maybe he's sleeping it off in the truck, planning to give Sam enough room to really stretch out. A double is a tight fit for him and Sammy these days, and Dean tends to fall asleep after Sam and get up before him, training himself to sleep fast so he doesn't waste valuable time.

He falls asleep between one of Sam's whistly breaths and the next, and he doesn't wake up until he hears the soft scrape of the key in the door. It's the dark grey of morning, an hour before sunrise at most, and Dad meets his eyes as soon as he's inside. He frowns, taking a deep breath and letting it out as he closes the door with care, making sure it doesn't make too much noise.

"Another sick kid at the hospital," he says in an undertone, picking up his duffel from where it sits on the table, still packed from the night before. "I'll be another week, two at the outside."

Dean nods. He expected as much, and he's grateful for the respite. Dealing with Sam when he's injured is hard enough; dealing with Sam and Dad together would drive him batshit. Dad crosses the room, eyes all for Sam, his face somehow soft and frustrated at the same time. He pulls a bottle of pills out of his pocket and hands them to Dean – a fresh bottle of Vicodin with a refill on the label. He sighs, putting a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder. "Take care of him."

Dean swallows the mess of tangled emotions that's playing kraken with his stomach and nods. "Yes, sir. You know I will."

That turns his dad's head and brings on a genuine smile for Dean. "I know, son," he says with a squeeze of Dean's shoulder. "I know."

~~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New rating:** Explicit sexual content  
>  **New relationship:** Sam/OMC  
>  **Chapter notes:** This chapter bumps the story's rating right up with explicit sexual content. It includes a new pairing (Sam/OMC) and a number of new tags: protective older brother Dean, voyeurism, drunkenness

~~~

_Reed City, Michigan, April 2000_

Sam wakes around noon, when the shaft of sunlight that's been sneaking across the room creeps across his face. "Mmmph," he says, attempting to sling an arm over his eyes and flinging it off of his shiner just as fast. "Fuck."

"Language," Dean says, and Sam sits bolt upright, looking around the room for Dad. Sam does a better impression of him, but Dean's always been able to do that one word particularly well.

"Not funny, Dean," he says, crumpling back onto the bed with a miserable face. "That hurt."

"Wimp," Dean says genially, throwing the bottle of Vicodin over. There's water on the nightstand and Sam shakes a couple out and takes them, looking at the label for a long second before setting it down next to his glass.

"Dad got these?"

"Yep," Dean answers, going back to the book he hasn't been reading for the last six hours. "He's back on the case, be gone a week or so."

Sam's rigid posture eases and he settles back onto the pillows and closes his eyes. It kills Dean to see Dad's absence be the thing that makes Sam more comfortable. He doesn't know how much longer things are going to last, and he can't imagine what his family is going to look like if Sam really does go off to college. He hadn't believed it at first. Sure, Sam was good at school, but it just made him better at research. He could do more damage alone in a library than Dean and Dad could in hours in the field. It was scary.

But then the studying started to take over more and more of Sam's time, and now he hasn't done more than records research in months. Years maybe. He still remembers everything he's ever read, though, details about monsters they hunted when he was still a runt, and he spews them out at random intervals, sometimes useful, sometimes not.

Dean looks over at Sam, splayed out over the bed, legs off the end and his good arm hanging off the side, and wonders what in the hell he's going to do. And then he shakes it off and _knows_ what he's going to do – just as soon as Sam tells him every detail of what happened last night.

"So you may have gotten by Dad," Dean says, moving to sit on the other bed, elbows on his knees so he can lean in to let Sam know he's serious. "But you're not getting out of this without telling me what the hell happened."

"Dean," Sam whines, not even opening his eyes.

Dean waits.

It only takes thirty seconds for Sam to open his good eye – and the black eye isn't completely glued shut either, so that's a good sign – and make a face he would never make at Dad. Dean can see him going through all of his opening lines ( _it's no big deal, come on, who cares, it's all over now_ ) and dismissing them before lying back and staring up at the ceiling.

"I caught Jason Metz checking me out in the showers. I thought maybe I'd see if he was interested in fooling around, get this virginity thing taken care of."

Dean closes his eyes and presses his thumbs into his temples. _Oh, Sammy._

Sam makes a soft noise, a self-deprecating whuff of laughter. "Apparently I read that one wrong, because when I offered, he ran away like I'd tried to light him on fire. Next thing I know, Kevin, Mark, Steve, and the Dooley twins decide maybe my face needs a little rearranging." He laughs again, this one more real. Dean opens his eyes, staring at the elaborately casual way Sam's lounging on the bed. "No Jason, though." One corner of Sam's mouth quirks up, like he thinks maybe Jason might have actually felt bad and not just been a total chickenshit.

Dean knows the guys from the team, he's been to Sam's meets and heard them all screaming each other's names. They screamed Sam's name, too, especially when his long arms and legs got them a sizeable lead in the relays. Dean looks Sam over. He's still pretty badly messed up, but the near-paralyzing fear he had when he found Sam in the showers is gone now, and just a little of his rage with it. He's still going to teach those kids a lesson, but he's not going to kill them. Not on purpose, at least. None of them could've taken Sammy's beating and walked themselves out of the hospital the same night.

"Leave it alone, Dean."

Dean smiles tightly. "Just thinking about dinner," he says, debating a burger from the diner half a mile east of Sam's school. "Might want to get a whole pie, since we'll be here for a while."

~~~

"Here's your homework, bitch." Dean plops a pile of papers on the end of the bed. "You've got research papers instead of finals except for calculus which is fifty pages of problem sets. Now tell me I am not the best big brother in the world."

Sam is actually speechless, which, considering how whiny he's been for the last three days, is a blessing. He gets it together enough to say, "Thanks, jerk," but he doesn't even try to make it sound like an insult. Dean smirks. He knows he's the best big brother on the planet, though he probably won't get that out of Sam until he's gotten his birthday surprise.

He'd waited three days before heading back to Mount Pleasant to put the fear of god into those kids and checking out Jason chickenshit Metz. He'd used collecting Sam's homework as a way to stalk the assholes. The way their eyes bugged out when he gave him his meanest smile was satisfying, but not nearly as satisfying as watching them nearly piss themselves when he flashed his gun and extracted a promise that not only were they not going to do it again, they were going to start a straight ally group for LGBT teens. He'd wanted to do a hell of a lot worse, but once the gun came out, he needed to act fast, and he still hadn't found Jason.

Jason'd turned out to be an all right kid. Cool, for someone Sam might be into, happy to ask Dean questions about Sam and the Impala while listening to Dean's music with his head nodding along. Dean likes him. He's still a chickenshit, but Dean's pretty sure that he's new to the whole gay thing, and in a small town in the sticks, and considering what happened to Sam, it's probably scary as hell. He's willing to cut the kid a little slack.

~~~

"Happy birthday, Sammy," Dean says, flipping his present across the room, the bottle going end over end. Sam catches it easily in one hand, his nose still in whatever book he's reading. That right there is why Dean started teaching him how to take care of the Impala in the first place. Sam'd still looked up to him when he first learned the basics, oil changes, spark plugs, flat tires. He could usually get Sam to help him if he needed it after that, but he was distinctly less interested once books started taking up all his time.

"Dude, you bought me motor oil for my birthday?"

Sam's already screwing up his face for a serious bitch session and Dean interrupts him with his best smirk. "Nope, I'm getting you laid. But not until you change the oil – you still owe me from our last bet."

It'd been on Dad's last hunt – Sam was sure the signs pointed to vampires but Dad had already told Dean it was more likely a rugaru. Dean didn't even feel bad cheating, either, because Sam had become just a little too full of himself when he'd gotten ten right in a row, some before Dad'd even had a clue.

"No brothels," Sam says, and Dean flips him the bird.

"I heard you the first time and no, I talked to Kerry while I was being your errand boy." Sam's face falls, all the sparkle in his eyes gone. Dean starts cleaning the table to avoid staring at Sam's face. He can't make it too obvious or Sam'll try to hide his reaction, and that's the best part. "Yeah, she told me you were just study partners. Should've figured that out when you mentioned hitting on that dude."

Sam looks back up at him, so easy to read, spark of hope and a little fear and confusion topping it all off. He's holding his breath. Dean goes back to chucking stuff into the garbage and wiping the crumbs off the table.

"So anyway, I found that dude, and asked if maybe he wanted a study date, that you were going a little stir crazy being stuck inside." 

Sam turns half around on the couch, excited like he hasn't been since he was a pre-teen and Dean was still the coolest thing since… well, Dad. "Really," Sam says, trying for cool and being at least two states over.

"Really," Dean echoes, holding the door open so Sam can see Baby. "Now get to work."

~~~

It turns out that even with dudes, Sam's a girl. Dean drops Sam off at Jason's house and takes off for a double feature at the theater one town over. When he picks Sam up, he's grinning happily, a complete dork, and it makes Dean's heart climb in his throat because he hasn't seen that look on Sam's face in years. Suddenly Sam's need to get away, the mountain of unhappiness that rests on him when they're hunting makes sense. And just like that, Dean knows he's going to let Sam walk out the door when it's time.

"All right, Elton John, way to go!" Dean's been brushing up on gay stuff, trying to find ways to let Sammy know it's fine, it's all fine, they're good and it doesn't matter to Dean, it would never matter to Dean, something unimportant like that. They're family.

"Um," Sam says, a blush creeping up his neck. "We have another study session tomorrow. I can drive myself," he adds hopefully.

"What, you couldn't get the job done?" Dean asks, and some of the shine goes out of Sam's eyes. Dean wishes he could take it back, but there's no point in setting up some chick flick precedent so he says, "Like I'd let you drive Baby. I'll take you. But don't think this is going to be a regular thing, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam says, but the shine is back.

~~~

_Reed City, Michigan, May/June 2000_

It does become a regular thing. The shtriga has moved west and Dad tells them to hang out in Reed City, that they can meet up when Sam's done with schoolwork and fully healed. Dean puts his foot down about driving Sam to Jason's house every night, but they go at least two or three times a week. Jason and Sam come along to the movies sometimes, and Dean keeps an eye on them, holding hands and making googly eyes at each other in the back seat.

At this point Dean has no idea what to think about the state of Sam's virginity. Either it's out of the way and he and this kid are just trying everything they can think of, or one of them is shy and they haven't managed to go all the way yet. He wouldn't have put his money on Sam being nervous about sex, but he wouldn't have put his money on Sam being a virgin at seventeen, either, so who knows which one of them it is. It's been three weeks and Sam's looking near one hundred percent again, except for the cast. He has to know their time is running short. 

When they drop Jason off at home and Sam joins him in the front seat, Dean sucks it up. "You know, we should meet up with Dad soon."

The soft smile that Sam'd had while he was staring out the window drops off his face entirely, and the muscle in his jaw jumps. 

"I'm not saying it to be mean, man. I like the kid, too. But we gotta go."

Sam frowns, looking even more miserable, still silent. Dean doesn't even know how to ask the question, but he has to know – as much as they both like Jason, they haven't really been sticking around here because of him. Dean's not leaving until the job's done. "So, have you managed to actually have sex yet?"

Now Sam's eyes are on him, blazing mad, which is about what he expected, but Dean's never been one to back down from a fight, especially when he's got something to lose. "What? I told you – I like the kid. But this isn't about him, and you know it. Don't tell me you're protecting _his_ reputation."

Sam narrows his eyes at Dean, still not jumping in, and damn it, he wishes Sam would just fight. It's easier that way. He turns back to the window and Dean sighs, wondering if he's going to have to grill Jason to get an honest answer.

"He's afraid of his mom walking in on us," Sam says quietly. Not angry, like Dean expected. Defeated. It makes his internal organs play musical chairs, and part of him isn't looking forward to meeting up with Dad. This is the happiest he's seen Sam in years, and they've only got a year left before Sam's gone, maybe for good. He doesn't want to spend the whole year with them fighting, Dad angry and Sam miserable.

"Well, you're not having sex in Baby," Dean says, and that gets a quick smile out of Sam. It's the smallest victory, but these days Dean takes whatever he can get. "Let's take him back to the motel, then. It's only fair we play host after all those dinners his mom's cooked you."

Sam turns to him then, confusion on his face. Dean's not exactly sure what he said that's confusing but he takes a stab at it. "What, high schoolers don't sleep over at friends' houses anymore? They talked about that shit when I was still at school."

"Dean," Sam says with an intonation that means it might as well have been "jerk." "We don't have a house. And I don't have my own room."

"So what?" Dean asks. "How long can it take? I haven't been able to go out since you got laid up. I could use a few hours hustling pool. I'll drop you off and come in after bar close. You better be able to get it done in six hours."

~~~

The next day, they saw Sam's cast off. It's a week and a half early but Sam's always healed quickly and he starts to get pissy when he's out of commission for too long, even though he hardly ever goes out in the field with them except in the summer, when there's no studying to be done instead. His arm is still weak and he doesn't have full range of motion yet, but Dean's sure he'll be right as rain by the time they meet up with Dad next week, healed up well enough to hunt for the next few months.

He tries not to think about how little Sam cares about that and convinces himself it's better to have Sam with them and watching their backs. He doesn't think about the fact that it's going to be their last summer together, or maybe their second-last, if Sammy hangs in until college starts in the fall. He doesn't think about visiting Sam's boring life and being the weird brother he has to explain away to his partner. He doesn't think about the possibility of Dad doing something stupid when Sam leaves, about the fact that it could be a break that doesn't heal. 

"What's the matter with you?" Sam asks, concern on his face. "Don't be sawing on my arm when you're distracted."

"I'm not distracted." Dean goes back to the cast, blocking everything else out.

~~~

They go shopping the morning before they pick Jason up for the weekend. Dean goes into the liquor store and comes out with a fifth of Jack and a six pack. If they've got any nerves, that should take care of them just fine. He knows Sam's not stupid enough to get really ripped, and he hopes that extends to making sure Jason doesn't overdo it either.

Sam comes out of the drugstore with a small bag, his face flaming red, and Dean can't help smirking.

"Jerk," Sam says, throwing himself into the shotgun seat. "I thought the checkout lady was going to smite me with her righteous anger when I came up to the counter with condoms and lube."

"Pre-marital sex, Sam, it's a sin." He grins and starts the car, letting Baby rumble just a bit.

"Actually," Sam says, smirking himself now, "I think it's because she saw me talking to you. I think she thinks we're together."

"Shut up," Dean says, gunning the engine, peeling out of the parking lot.

~~~

Dean's pretty wasted on the way back to the hotel. Normally he'd have gone home with one of the waitresses for a couple of hours to work it off, but he's got Sammy and a civilian back at the motel so he doesn't want to leave them alone for too long. Besides, this is one of those things he's practiced with Dad; drunk driving is a lot like driving when you're seriously injured, and Dean can drive a straight line through everything from a buzz to a broken limb – as long as it's not his right leg. He might even be able to do that, but he's not going to tempt fate and try it.

He can be stealthy too, as long as he's not falling down drunk, so slipping in to the hotel room isn't a problem either. He peeks around the door to make sure he's not interrupting anything, and he's glad to see the boys spread out on Sam's bed. Sam's on his front, his long limbs hanging off the side and end like always, and Jason's on top of him, his cheek mashed into Sam's shoulder. It's sweet, almost, and Dean smiles even as he shakes his head at himself. He must be pretty drunk to be this sappy. 

He toes off his boots and flops on the other bed, starting off on his back and flipping over pretty quickly to let one of his arms dangle. The room doesn't spin when he has a hand on the floor.

"Hey," Sam whispers, and Dean opens his eyes and smiles at his kid brother. Sam looks so peaceful like this, and Dean would do almost anything to keep him this way.

"Hey," Dean mumbles, still smiling. "All done?" Sam nods, eyes avoiding Dean's. He's probably blushing too, but Dean can't tell in the near-black of the room. "Everything okay?"

Sam nods again, his eyes coming back to meet Dean's. "Thanks."

"Welcome," Dean answers, letting his eyes slide shut.

~~~

When he wakes up, Dean has no idea how long it's been but it definitely has not been long enough for him to sober up. The room is spinning and he puts his hand down forcefully on the floor to make it stop. That lets him focus on what woke him, the soft whispers and laughter coming from the other bed. Someone – Sam, he's pretty sure – says "shhhh!" and laughs. Dean's about to make a comment, just some smartass remark, but the noises shift abruptly to wet smacking and he screws his eyes shut instead, singing snatches of songs in his head, Zeppelin, Metallica, Ozzy, whatever comes to mind.

He'd gotten pretty good at tuning Sam out when he was jacking off as a teenager. He's gotten more subtle about it or moved it to the shower in the last couple years, but it was an every night thing when he was thirteen, and Dean just kept his eyes shut and let his favorite music loop in his head. He'd done the same thing when he was thirteen and mostly he prayed that Sam hadn't been awake at the time. Considering how distinctive the shift in the bed is, the small movements that rock the mattress ever so slightly, he doubts it. He made his peace with it a long time ago. You live in each other's pockets, you have to deal with taking care of business. There's a lot of nasty that comes with three grown dudes living together in a twelve by fourteen room. 

The music isn't really cutting it tonight, probably because while Sam has trained himself to be quiet, Jason has obviously never had the need, so his breathing gets louder and louder and then turns into soft sighs and low moans. Sam keeps shushing him, sometimes relatively effectively by kissing him, judging by the return of the smacking noises. Dean doesn't know what causes it, maybe the sudden lack of noise that makes him wonder if they've stopped breathing, but he opens his eyes. 

It's a mistake, because what he sees is Jason using his mouth to chase a condom down Sam's dick, and about fifty different things go off in Dean's brain. _No wonder he shut up_ just edges out _that's fucking hot_ followed closely by _that's disgusting, Dean_ – that one in his father's voice. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get some AC/DC going but his brain has completely shorted out and his dick has decided to perk up, since he hasn't gotten any action in recent weeks thanks to Sam's need to have him around almost constantly while he milks his injuries for all they're worth. 

He can hear Sam letting out a shaky breath, so slow Dean wouldn't have heard it at all if he wasn't listening for it specifically. For half a second he feels bad that Sam's so quiet – the last thing he wants is for Sam to have some weird phobia about making noise during sex. Then he realizes what he's thinking and decides that for right now, quiet is just fine. Sam can be as loud as he wants when he's in college, living in close proximity with other guys, guys who aren't family. 

Jason picks that moment to start making noise again, a couple of laughs and a soft "whoa" and then an "oof" out of Sam that makes Jason laugh some more. It's weirdly unsettling, hearing them wrestle around and not really knowing what's going on. Part of him is screaming at him to open his eyes, to check on Sam and make sure he's not doing something stupid like putting too much weight on his weak arm. He tells that part of himself to _shut the hell up_ and screws his eyes shut even tighter, pressing his palm hard against the floor for something to ground him. 

Things settle down after another minute or two, Sam back to shushing Jason and Jason letting out breathy whines that are getting louder and louder – and are surprisingly sexy, considering Dean had been vaguely appalled at the idea of two dudes having sex when he first considered it. They get muffled every once in a while, like Sam's maybe putting his hand over Jason's mouth, but he must need it for something else because after a few seconds, Jason's right back at it again. 

Dean starts to wonder how long it's going to be. It's only been maybe five minutes but it's a small eternity with his eyes closed, straining to hear and trying not to listen at the same time, his eyes squeezed shut tight and giving him a tension headache. It can't be much worse with his eyes open, he thinks. Logic of the still drunk or deeply stupid, he realizes, because when he opens them, he's treated to the sight of Jason kneeling over Sam, slowly lowering himself down onto Sam's dick, still moaning and fifty times hotter now that Dean has a picture, complete with Sam's back bowed and his teeth clenched tightly shut around any sound he might make. 

Jason's grinning lazily, too, like he knows he's got something on Sam, which might be true, since Sam's left hand is resting on Jason's right hip but unable to do much of anything, still weak from being in a cast for four and a half weeks. Sam's right hand is grasping Jason's other hip tight, trying and failing to keep Jason from moving.

Dean sees all of this in the blink of an eye and has already decided to shut his eyes again – what a damn fool idea it'd been to open them in the first place – when Sam does something Dean can't even process. He pulls Jason down for a kiss and flips them over in a move so graceful it's like he's practiced it for years. It takes him a couple seconds to realize Sam _has_ practiced it for years – he's used that move on Dean hundreds of times when Dean's gotten him pinned on his back. Dean swallows convulsively and lets out his breath, slow and quiet.

Now Jason is the one on his back, writhing under the pressure of Sam's body. Sam pushes his hips in, one long stroke, and his mouth on Jason's guarantees Jason isn't making any noise that Dean can hear. "I told you," Sam says quietly, pulling back out, smooth, too fucking smooth for inexperienced little Sammy, "we have to be quiet. Don't want to wake my brother up." And that voice is way too smooth, too, tying Dean into knots.

That jolts Dean into action and he screws his eyes shut again, hoping this means Sam's going to hurry up and finish this thing and put Dean out of his misery. _This is the repayment I get for being the best big brother ever._ Why in the hell does he ever do _anything_ for Sam, who is clearly an ingrate and a complete bastard.

This is proven true as Sam seems to be able to go on for hours, slow and steady enough that Dean can't even hear the slide or the slap of their bodies meeting. He can hear Jason though, even with Sam's mouth over his, the groans and whines and outright begging noises louder and louder and coming faster, the rhythm cycling up as easy as pie, and Dean wonders when the hell Sam learned that trick. It took him years to perfect that. If it weren't for that virgin-eating hag, Dean would never believe this was Sam's first time. Even if he's been stringing Dean along, he can't have been at it for more than a few months – and Dean knows Sammy's smart – crazy smart – but there's no way he's learned these tricks in the four months since North Dakota.

Jason finally breaks, and Sam releases his mouth. It's weird, though, because it sounds like Jason is sobbing. Dean keeps his damn eyes shut because fuck, he hates it when people cry after sex. It's only happened to him a handful of times and the women all assured him it was fine, it was just the release or whatever, and they _had_ been fine after, but it still freaks him out and always has. Jason calms after a moment, thankfully, and his half-whispered, "Yeah," is almost lost in the sound of Sam shifting into gear.

Dean can finally hear it, the sounds of sex he's used to, not the eerily silent slo-mo Sam's been at, but it's a race to the finish, Sam basically getting it done as quickly as he can. Jason doesn't seem to mind, he's humming encouragingly, but Dean can't help opening his eyes; something tells him this isn't right, there's something wrong with Sam. It's almost instantaneous, Dean opening his eyes and Sam coming, his head falling forward until his chin's resting on his chest and then his entire body crumples over Jason's. 

Dean's sure he missed something there, something important, but the room is spinning again so he closes his eyes and pushes the floor away, the solid vinyl under his hand enough to let him drift off, the soft whispers and laughter from the other bed calmer and sweeter now.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New "Relationship":** Offscreen Dean/OFC  
>  **Chapter notes:** No new warnings or tags; more voyeuristic!Dean and Sam/OMC, less explicit this time.

~~~

_Reed City, Michigan, June 2000_

Dean wakes up with a righteous headache and the taste of sweat socks in his mouth. He's face down on his bed, still in his clothes. At least he got his boots off. He doesn't remember much after cleaning out the guys at the pool tables; there were celebratory shots with the waitress and then… He frowns, stopping after a second because it makes the headache worse. He should've gone home with her, and he should've been sober before he drove back to the hotel. Obviously that's not what happened, since he doesn't remember anything after the sixth shot of tequila.

He looks over at the other bed. Sam's out, covers kicked off because he always runs hot, and completely naked. Looks like the job's done. Dean rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom, going for the aspirin first and the toothpaste second.

~~~

"Rise and shine, ladies," Dean says, putting the coffee and donuts on the table. He slams the door for good measure and Jason starts under the sheets. That's a surprise. Sam comes out of the bathroom fully dressed, toweling his hair. That's not a surprise, that's their standard M.O. Sam always wakes when Dean leaves the motel and is almost always dressed and ready to go when he gets back. Dean's surprised he didn't send Jason to the shower first; it's going to be awkward now.

"Oh, _coffee_ ," Sam says, grabbing the nearest cup and guzzling half of it down in two gulps as he crosses the room to sit next to Jason on the bed. Jason grabs the cup and takes a sip, making a face as soon as he swallows.

"You drink it black?" Jason asks, and Sam freezes.

Sam's drunk coffee since he was twelve, when he started needing to stay up to do research and get his homework done. He hadn't liked it black but Dad's never let them put anything in it so Sam'd sucked it up, just like Dean had when he'd started drinking the stuff. Now neither of them can stand it any other way. Dean's seen the crappy local coffeehouse the kids hang out at in Mount Pleasant; they wouldn't know a cup of coffee if it hit them between the eyes. Everything is made with so much milk and sugar it might as well be hot chocolate. 

Sam's throwing out excuses, something about caffeine studies and test performance and Jason's eyes are widening like he's never heard anything like it before. "Guess I'll have to get used to it, then," he says, taking another sip and making another face.

It's Saturday morning, nothing pressing for anyone, and Dean doesn't know if he should just leave and let them have the room for the day or what. He remembers being seventeen and horny all the time. Not to mention he could use a little quality time with the waitress at the diner that'd slipped him her number.

"Well, why don't I let you two crazy kids have the room," Dean starts, but Sam's face falls and he can't quite finish the thought. "What? I thought you'd want –"

"I'm going nuts in here," Sam says, glancing briefly at Jason before looking back at Dean. "Please don't make me stay here all day."

"But," Dean starts, tilting his head slightly toward Jason. He's under the covers, watching their conversation with the sheets pulled up to his chin.

"Jason can come with us," Sam says, turning to Jason and smiling. "His mom's not expecting him back until tomorrow. I told her we were camping."

Dean curls his lip. He hates camping. Sam's always loved it but he never knew they were doing it because there wasn't enough money for a motel. By the time he was old enough to figure it out, they'd started their credit card scams and the camping had stopped almost immediately. Dean thought maybe Dad wasn't big on camping either.

"Well obviously we're _not_ camping, Dean," Sam says, like maybe Dean's a little slow. "I just meant that we have all day. Can't we go somewhere?"

Dean thinks, pulls out the mental map of the States he's got in his head and looks at what's all around. "We could do the dunes," he says. "Haven't been there since you were too little to make it to the top."

"Oh, the Sleeping Bear Dunes?" Jason asks, finally perking up. "I've never been."

Dean and Sam both turn to stare. "Dude. You live three hours away."

Jason pulls the covers back over himself. "Never had the opportunity. We don't drive much, my family."

"Road trip!" Sam's grinning ear to ear. He's always been happiest in the Impala, staring out at the miles running by, thinking all his weird deep thoughts and ignoring the music. Dean shrugs. The dunes were pretty cool, he thought, though he'd only been seven the last time they were there. It had nearly killed him, getting to the top of the dune, and he had collapsed in the back seat when they left, sleeping tucked up against Sam's carseat. 

"All right," Dean says, "but I want a better breakfast than donuts, then. We're stopping at the diner." And with any luck, his waitress will be on duty and he can make plans to meet her when they get back.

~~~

The waitress isn't on, but the food is good and the coffee is strong and Dean's already making his mental playlist for the drive as Sam and Jason discuss Sam's research papers. He gets a thermos-full of coffee to go and piles them into the car, Sam not even being a good host and offering Jason shotgun. He loops his arm over the seat and grabs Jason's hand though, holding on while he puts his face to the window and closes his eyes into the breeze.

It's not even a long enough drive to play any of the really good games, but Sam eases Jason in, playing the alphabet game and the license plate game, and Jason looks a little troubled when Sam's able to identify the state of a license plate by nothing more than a smudge of color just on the edge of his vision. 

"You guys spend a lot of time on the road, huh," Jason says, and just like that the mood shifts. Sam's always been good at passing for normal, he takes care to notice what people wear and listen to and watch on TV. He hates it when something about him sticks out, when he doesn't look like the apple pie kid he pretends to be.

"Yeah," Dean answers for him, because fuck it, he's never thought about anything but this, he's never wanted anything more than this. He loves the road and the car and the hunt and his brother. And if Jason's going to think poorly of Sam for something like that, well then, Dean is going to take that shit personally. "Dad moves around a lot for his job."

Jason must hear something in Dean's voice, or maybe he catches the glint of teeth in his smile, but he doesn't say whatever pitying thing was about to come out of his mouth. Good thing, too, because Dean cannot stand to be pitied for doing what needs doing, and as much as Sam wants to be normal, Dean knows he doesn't want pity for the way things are.

Dean turns up the music and they ride in silence for a while.

~~~

_Jason's a decent kid_ , Dean thinks for the hundredth time since he and Sam started their whatever-this-is. He's humming along to Skynyrd, and when _Gimme Three Steps_ comes on, he starts singing under his breath.

Dean's never been one to hold a grudge and Jason's too into Sam to really fault him much; he starts singing along and once they hit the chorus, even Sam joins in, a big grin on his face. Jason and Dean sing the rest of the album, Sam joining in here and there and sometimes humming along, and the last hour of the drive is one of the better ones in Dean's recent memory.

The dunes are just as big as Dean remembers, which seems weird since he was so little when he was here last. He feels like they should be more reasonably-sized now that he's an adult, but no, they're really mountains of sand, up and up and up and just a bit awe-inspiring. 

"That is so cool," Jason says as they take off their socks and shoes and roll their jeans up. "I didn't expect them to be so big." Dean can't help smiling, keeping his face down, eyes on his boots as he tucks his socks in and throws them on the floor under the steering wheel. 

The climb is also just as hard as he remembers it, partially because climbing barefoot in the sand makes his calves ache after just a few minutes. When they finally make it to the top, they're all huffing and puffing and they rest for a minute, shading their eyes to see the lake. No dice, not yet, but Dean knows it's not that far. He drops his hand and starts walking, deciding it is way too nice a day not to go swimming.

~~~

The kids follow him, talking in low tones about god only knows what, and Dean just keeps an ear out for the constant rumble of their voices, not needing to look back to know they're safe. He's thinking about swimming now, wondering if skinny-dipping is going to be awkward. He hasn't owned a bathing suit since he was four and taking lessons at the Y. He doesn't swim enough to make it worth carrying one around. Besides, skinny-dipping has been just fine, in his experience, better than fine when he gets some pretty young thing to go with him.

He hasn't been swimming with Sam since before the whole not-gay-but-liking-dudes thing, and he wonders if it'll be weird now. Or if it'll be weird because Sam's… Jason is there. He worries over it all the way to the downward slope that'll take them into the lake, and then the vast stretch of blue water blows all the thoughts right out of his brain. He starts stripping as he runs down the hill, glad for the light sheen of sweat from the perfect seventy-five degree weather, leaving his clothes wherever they fall. He dives in as soon as he hits the shore – there's no wading in here, deep, cool water right off the dunes.

It's a perfect dive, damn it, so it really ruins the effect when he comes up cursing about the fucking _freezing_ water. Luckily Sam and Jason are close enough on his heels that they can't stop mid-dive, and the change in their faces from glee to fear is almost enough to make up for his balls trying to climb their way back into his body. 

He starts to swim, long, smooth strokes to get the blood pumping and seeing if maybe Sam will follow him and tread water out a ways for a while, just looking out across the seemingly endless expanse of lake.

Once he starts swimming, though, he doesn't want to stop – he forgets, when he doesn't swim for a while, the silky ripple of the water over his skin. He swims until the lake suddenly turns colder – bone-chilling cold – and he stops to tread and have a look around. He's pretty far out, farther than he'd intended to swim when he started, and Sam and Jason are way back near shore, having an enthusiastic splash fight. He starts the swim back in, more leisurely now, listening for their laughter as he gets closer and swimming breaststroke, trying to be stealthy so he can swim underwater for the last little bit and make a grab for Sam's legs. 

Sam sees him coming and puts Jason between them. That's just enough to rock Dean's boat – it wasn't weird when he was going to drag Sam underwater, the fact that they're all naked be damned, but doing the same to Sam's boyfriend is somewhere he's not willing to go. He swims past them both, popping up on the other side in the almost-warm water near the shore, dragging his ass out of the cold and onto the sand. He shakes off as much water as he can before lying down on his back and drowsing, letting the sun warm his skin.

~~~

Dean wakes up to a shirt flung in his face, sitting up and wincing at the wet sand all down his back. "You're going to burn," Sam says, throwing the rest of his clothes onto the sand next to him. He's dripping wet, using his flannel shirt to wipe himself marginally dry.

"Nah," Dean says, rolling over onto his front and using the shirt as a pillow. There's wet sand in his hair, which is the worst of it, but he just needs patience. He knows this dance and just has to wait it out. Sam's the one who'll regret it if he tries to get dressed with his skin damp and wet sand on his feet.

~~~

Next time he wakes, he opens his eyes to the back of Sam's head, his hair all over the place from the water and the wind. Dean smiles and tests his shoulders, makes sure the skin's not tight and burnt. He's got maybe half an hour before he starts to pink up, but he needs it; there's still damp sand in places, in the hair at the base of his skull and on the curve of his spine. He reaches a hand back to brush it off, see if he can get the rest of it to dry off so he doesn't scratch himself to death on the drive home.

Jason's hand reaches up to pet Sam's back at the same time and there's a weird moment where Dean actually wonders if he's touching his own skin or Sammy's. He blinks and it passes, Jason's hand returning to wherever it came from and leaving Dean unsettled like a pebble skipped across the surface of his mind.

~~~

He misses the mark, probably by about twenty minutes. It's not too bad, a bit of pink on his upper shoulders and tight skin on his back. He's dry, though, and when he stands, the sand brushes off easily and getting dressed is a cinch.

Sam's on his back now. For whatever reason, he started on his front – which is absolutely stupid because he's covered in wet sand from his forehead to his feet. It's also stupid because Dean has to avoid looking at his brother naked and stretched out on the sand like a cat, arms above his head and face turned to the side, like he was looking for Dean in his sleep. 

He must feel Dean staring because he wakes up, his eyes finding Dean's in the space of a breath. He yawns, stretching and smiling, the content smile that makes Dean's guts twist with how much he wants Sammy to wear it all the time, and how little he actually gets to see it.

~~~

Dean stops at the first sit-down place they run into for dinner, a Biggerson's outside Traverse City, and Sam eats like he hasn't had real food in weeks. It probably means he's going to get another growth spurt; he always seems to grow a couple of inches after he eats like this. Dean's not really on board with that; he's already over an inch taller than Dean and his arms are freaky long. Jason watches Sam pack it in with not a little amazement, chomping on his reuben to keep his hands and mouth busy.

When Sam's finished both of his dinners and half of Jason's fries, he takes a look at the dessert menu and orders a hot fudge sundae and peach cobbler. Dean orders the cherry pie and Jason looks like he's about to ask if he can just pick at some of Sam's desserts, but something makes him change his mind. Probably the way Sam inhaled everything on the table within two feet of his plate. He orders a peach cobbler too, which Sam ends up finishing off for him.

Dean's glad they just got a new set of credit cards before Dad left because Sam's eaten his way through several hundreds of dollars' worth of food in the last few weeks. Dean hustles pool and poker to make cash, but he hasn't had the time since Sam got laid up, so it's been a credit card binge. He'll have to get a new one before they meet up with Dad. Watching Sam climb into the back seat, sprawling and nearly-comatose, he decides it's worth it.

~~~

Dean hums along with the music, not wanting to disturb Sam and Jason in the back seat, snoozing like a couple of kids after a day at the carnival. He keeps an eye on them, unable to keep from glancing back every few minutes to make sure Sam's okay. He can go days or weeks without Sam when on a hunt and not worry at all, but if Sam's within touching distance, he can't help looking at him like he might disappear from the face of the earth if Dean doesn't clap eyeballs on him every ten minutes.

He doesn't know how he knows they've started fooling around back there, but he knows. Their eyes are closed, Jason's head pillowed on Sam's chest, Sam's mouth open and soft. Something is off, though, and Dean just knows someone is doing something they shouldn't be doing in the back seat of his car. Well, someone who isn't _him_. 

Sam takes a deep breath, turning his head toward the rearview mirror, so he'd be looking Dean in the eyes if they were open. Dean's not one hundred percent sure Sam's awake; it could be Jason doing a little groping and Sam still being mostly unconscious. Then there's another breath and Sam's brow wrinkles and all Dean can think is that he really wants to turn the music up but now he can't because they'll know he knows and god _damn_ it he is going to put his eyes on the road and hum to himself to block out every possible thought in his head because none of them are decent and most of them aren't particularly charitable.

He's glad he switched to Thin Lizzy because he doesn't know the words as well so he can concentrate on remembering the lyrics and ignore the fact that he can now _smell_ the scent of sex coming from the back seat. Sam is going to owe him _forever_ for this whole escapade, and Dean's also going to stop being polite about bringing women back to the motel. On purpose.

Sam's definitely awake now because Dean can hear him breathing, ragged swallows of air that are familiar sounds of sex everywhere. He can hear every nuance, resonating with Sam like some kind of tuning fork, a pure sweet pitch that goes right past hearing the sounds to knowing the feeling, his body buzzing, just under the skin.

He's stopped humming. He doesn't know when, but he does know he's holding his breath and his chest is tight and he can't stop listening to Sam, nearly silent and screamingly loud, straight into Dean's brain. The only thing he has left are his hands tight on the steering wheel and the dashed yellow line in the middle of the road, half-second blips of color with a rhythm all their own – until Dean realizes he's slowed down to make them match up with Sam's breathing.

He tries to hum again but the music is lost, an annoying background clamor that he can't quite wrap his head around. He can hear his inner Sam-worrier screaming at him to check on them in the back seat, that he needs to see Sam _right now_ , like he might have dropped into a wormhole or something, even though he can hear and smell and feel Sam right there. 

He ignores it, waiting for Sam to get with the program and finish his business because he really does need to set eyes on Sam something fierce, but he can hear his dad's voice ringing in his ears clear as if it was yesterday, and he is not going to have anything to do with Sam having sex, even if it's happening less than a foot away from him. 

Sam's breathing is whiny now, just the slightest keen like he's on the razor's edge and Dean just keeps praying that Jason will figure out how to get him all the way there because this is torture. _Ignore the elephant in the back seat_ , he thinks, just a little hysterically. He's imprisoned in his own car, nowhere to go, nowhere to look, knuckles getting tighter on the steering wheel with every mile.

Sam just keeps _breathing_ and Dean's inner worrier just keeps _nagging_ and then he can almost hear it, as if Sam'd said it out loud: _Dean._ He looks into the rearview and Sam's eyes are locked on his, one long second of recognition before Sam's eyes roll back in his head and the scent from the back seat gets even sharper. 

Dean puts his eyes back on the road and turns the damn radio up, the lyrics flooding in easy now.

~~~

The boys are asleep by the time they get back to the hotel. Dean debates leaving them in the car, but he's already dreading the mess in the back seat and besides, it's his turn to get a little play. He's going to hit up the diner to see if the waitress is on and if not, he's going out to the bar and play pool and drink until he finds someone he can charm into taking him home.

"Wakey wakey," he says, shoving Sam hard enough to dislodge Jason. They wake slowly, bleary-eyed and tousled. "C'mon Romeos, time to sleep in a real bed."

Jason moves first, stumbling out of the car and stretching, putting a hand on Baby for balance. Dean tosses him the key to the room and leans back into the Impala to give Sam another shove. He always could sleep anywhere. "Get up, bitch," he says, ruffling Sam's hair to annoy him into moving. Sam waves an ineffectual hand at him, leaning back against the door.

Dean's been remarkably patient, considering everything, and all he wants is to have his car back so he can go get laid. It's really not that much to ask. He opens the door and Sam spills out, skinning his hands on the blacktop when he puts them out to break his fall. "Damn it," he says, scowling at Dean.

"Should've gotten up." Dean sidesteps Sam's clumsy attempt at a tackle, sending him to the ground again.

"Fuck you," Sam says, almost affectionately.

"Nah," Dean says, grinning, "not when you've got your horny boyfriend waiting for you in there. And you're cleaning up the back seat tomorrow before we leave."

The blood drains out of Sam's face and Dean could kick himself. He was planning to meet up with Dad soon. Monday, maybe, after they'd faxed all of Sam's homework in. "I meant before we take Jason home," he says, just to get the stricken look off Sam's face.

It works, and then feels guilty because they do need to get on the road and Sam's got to know that. He can't help pushing his luck. "You know we have to catch up with Dad soon, though," he says. "You should tell him."

"He knows," Sam mumbles, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. "But thanks for ruining a perfect day."

Dean frowns. He's the one that gave the brat his perfect day, he's not going to feel guilty about doing what he has to do. "Sam," he says, but Sam's already at the door and giving Dean the cold shoulder. He goes in without turning around and Dean rolls his eyes. "Teenagers," he tells Baby, turning the music up as he goes to find some fun.

~~~

Dean skips the diner and heads straight for the bar. He needs a little time to relax, and while everyone there already knows his game, he plays pool anyway, just knocking balls around until a woman with a nice smile and short shorts picks up a cue and asks to join in.

He leaves her in the early morning in a small but tidy apartment, making his way back to the motel and the pair of boys who are hopefully fucked out by now because all Dean really wants is his sleep. 

They don't even move when he comes in, dead to the world in the way only teenagers can be, and Dean strips off and climbs in, stretching his muscles as he feels the overwhelming exhaustion come over him. He hasn't been doing anything but taking care of Sam for the last month or more but suddenly so he's tired he could sleep for a week.

~~~

"Dean."

Dean rolls over, squinting up at Sam and Jason behind him. They're fully dressed and Jason looks anxious. Sam is staring down at him with concern, though, and Dean realizes he hasn't slept for a solid six hours in a long time.

"I have to get Jason back in time for church," Sam says. "You gonna wake up enough to take us, or let me drive your car?"

"Like hell you're driving my car," Dean says, but he feels oddly sleepy still. It's not that he doesn't trust Sam with the Impala, it's just... he doesn't trust Sam with the Impala. 

"We have to go _now_ , Dean."

"Oh, fuck it," Dean says, pulling the keys out of his jeans on the floor next to the bed. "If you hurt my baby –"

"You'll kick my ass," Sam says, smoothly catching the keys. "I know. See you later."

Dean nods and drops his face back onto the pillow heavily.

~~~

"Are you sick or something?"

Dean rolls over, feeling rested deep in his bones like he hasn't for a long time. He stretches, the stiffness in his muscles chased away with the simple movement. He feels good. "'m fine. Guess I was just tired."

"I've never seen you sleep like that," Sam says, and they both know it's a total lie, they used to sleep in on Saturdays when Dad was on hunts, at least until he started giving them practice schedules – and sometimes even then, if Sam was feeling extra-wheedly or Dean was feeling extra-indulgent. It doesn't matter though, because it's been years and he hadn't realized how much of a difference it makes. He feels good, but slow, like his brain is wrapped in gauze.

"Where’s the coffee, bitch?" There's no way Sam took the Impala and didn't come back with coffee.

"Thought we could get some before we hit the road," Sam says, and Dean takes a look around the room. It's empty, everything but Dean's duffel gone, Sam's bed made, and what the hell is that?

"All right," Dean says, standing and stretching again. He shuffles to the bathroom, hoping a shower will actually wake his ass up.

It doesn't; and neither does the coffee or the breakfast. His brain shifts from slow to pensive while they drive, thinking about Sam and college and Dad and hunting, trying to find a way for things not to fall apart. 

"What're you thinking about, man?" Sam asks, which is weird because this is always what he assumes Sam is doing when he's staring out the window watching the scenery fly by, and he's never asked, not once. He's mostly sure he doesn't want to know.

"Stuff," Dean answers, hoping Sam won't pry. Sometimes he can guess, and with a well-timed question he suddenly has Dean talking without even knowing how he started. Dean's not ready for this, though, the tension between Sam and Dad is too high. He needs to work this one out on his own.

Sam lets him be, going back to staring out the window himself. Dean spares him a glance, trying to figure out if he's particularly heartbroken to have left Jason behind. Dean's only had girlfriends a handful of times, but he's never really minded saying goodbye. He'd do it preemptively if he thought it was going to be too weird at the end. Sam looks okay, no more brooding than normal, less tense than he's looked in months. Maybe this will all work out.

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** captive character, shapeshifter, Sam going to college, with John's blessing  
>  **Chapter notes:** Possible trigger points: Dean is tied up and unable to escape, there is a shapeshifter, Dean is worried and anxious (obviously).

~~~

_Holdrege, Nebraska June, 2000_

This will never work out. Sam's jaw is stuck out so far it looks like he's trying to poke Dad with it and Dad's eyes are flashing dangerously, half a step away from Dean having to put himself bodily between them before they come to blows. Sam always leaves by now; Dean hopes the last few weeks haven't made Sam even more stupid about poking Dad in all his sore spots. Sam knows every single one of them, anything and everything that will set Dad's teeth on edge, and he'd started in on them the second they walked into the motel, throwing his duffel on the table and kicking his shoes halfway across the room.

Dean's not even sure what they're arguing about; it'd started with a simple order for Sam to pick his shit up and has turned into a screaming match about Sam being too good for hunting, which Dean can see Sam had never thought of before, but now that Dad's planted the seed, it's going to grow. Dean's going to have to cut that one off and quick.

They've gotten to the tense staring contest part of the argument and Dean elbows Sam in the kidney to get him to flinch first. Sam glares at him, maybe looking a little hurt, expecting Dean to be on his side, like there's any sort of meaning to this fight, to most of these fights. It shakes Sam's bravado, though, and he turns and heads for the door. Dean breathes a sigh of relief as it slams shut behind him and Dad sits down heavily into one of the chairs at the crappy little dinette.

"You spoiled him," Dad accuses.

Dean takes the other chair and looks down at the table. He hasn't been so soft on Sammy in years; he's not even sure how it happened, looking back. "Yes sir," Dean answers, wondering when Sam had learned how to play him so easily. 

"You're not helping."

Dean shrugs. He hadn't planned to coddle Sam, but watching him come out of that angry shell, smile and be happy, it'd been addictive. He hadn't realized how pissed off Sam was _all the time_ anymore, always gunning for a fight. 

Dad sighs. Dean's good at avoiding direct conversations, especially with Dad, who lets him slide. Sam's like a dog with a bone, he just _has_ to keep pushing until Dean blows up and ends up saying all the things he worked so hard not to think about. It's not like Sam doesn't know what Dean's thinking; the actual words are never a surprise when they're hanging in the air between them. Dean's never understood why Sam has to push, why he needs things said out loud. Dad knows what Dean's thinking too, but he lets it go, knows that making Dean say it out loud is just plain mean.

"You're gonna tell me what happened, though," Dad says, and Dean can feel his breath die in his chest. "I know you got it out of him."

Dean swallows, keeping his eyes on the table so he can avoid Dad seeing the panic in them. The easiest lie is the one that's closest to the truth, so he takes a deep breath and starts talking. "He was defending a friend of his. Bunch of jocks gonna beat up the nerd, five against one. Sam stepped in."

"Bullshit." Dad stares right at him, and Dean can't help meeting his eyes and swallowing apprehensively. "There is no way Sam lost a fight that badly, even five to one. Not if he was looking them in the face when they came at him."

He's giving Dean a soft pitch; letting him know what's important to him is the _how_ of it, not the _why_ , and Dean lets his breath out slowly, choosing his words carefully to give Dad what he wants and still protect Sam. "Sam defended the little nerd in the hall, and they had to back down. So they came for him after swim practice." Dean stops for a second, letting the anger that's still dangerously close to the surface settle a little while he thinks through their tactics. "They jumped him in the showers." Dean shrugs. "He was wet." 

Sam hasn't told him but it's easy enough to piece together. Dad's right that Sam wouldn't have lost a straight up fight. They'd been smart, sneaking up on him in the shower, nothing around to fight with, small space, soaking wet. Naked might have been a problem for most people, but Sam was always a scrappy fighter and once he went in, he went all the way in. He wouldn't have even noticed he was naked. The wet, though, that had definitely been a problem. 

Dad nods. "He should've been listening better. Shouldn't have been easy for five guys to sneak up on him."

"They were teammates," Dean says, wondering why he's even bothering. If Dad wants to bitch about Sam he's going to do it, regardless of any argument Dean makes. "He probably trusted they wouldn't want to hurt their chances at the meet that weekend."

Dad's raised eyebrow tells Dean exactly what he thinks of that. "Then he's too trusting. He should know better than to assume intentions of anyone he's crossed paths with before."

Dean sighs. Dad's right, but that's just who Sam is. Dean's not sure he'd train it out of Sam if he could; there's something about Sam having that kind of faith in humanity that keeps him and Dad on track, keeps their cynicism in check. 

Satisfied for the moment, Dad grunts and gets up to look in the cupboards, scrounging for dinner.

~~~

Dinner passes slowly, beef stew out of cans and Dad talking about the next hunt, a case Bobby threw him in North Carolina where amnesia seems to be catching. It's good to see Dad smile, shooting the shit and drinking beer, and sometimes Dean wonders if this is what it would've been like if he'd been an only child. Probably not, Dad still has a temper and Dean can push smartass too far when he's in a mood, but it feels good for the moment, no tension, no being caught in the middle of the only family he's got trying to tear each other's hearts out.

Sam comes in long after they've settled in to watch some history channel shit that Dean finds interesting but will never admit to. Sam loves it too – it's almost always his default when he needs background noise – but he'd never let Dad know that either. It would take away the righteous anger of Sam not being able to keep up on all the crap TV his schoolmates watch.

It's summer, though, all reruns anyway, so when Sam plops down on the floor and leans back against Dean's legs without complaint, Dean calls it a win.

~~~

_Tucson, Arizona, August 2000_

The next several cases go off without a hitch, making everything smoother. Dean can wrangle Sam when he's being particularly pissy and defuse dad's temper with a well-placed joke when he's being particularly hard-assed. They settle into a rhythm – a full day of Sam at the library and Dean and Dad poking around town, sometimes with an agenda, sometimes not, and then they go their separate ways following up leads, Sam sometimes on his own and sometimes with Dean, depending on how easy it is to get around without a car.

They put away two vengeful spirits, a poltergeist, and three garden-variety ghosts before the good luck comes to a screeching halt.

It's the same as it's been every other hunt, waiting for the library to close and Sam to be the last one out the door, dying for some grub so they can get on with the real work. He and dad had poked around, gotten a feel for the city and whether or not people think something weird is going on. Not so much, it turns out, Tucson's just big enough to not really have a close-knit sort of community where word of mouth can be more valuable than the papers.

Dean's just about ready to go in and drag Sam out bodily – the place closed fifteen minutes ago and the parking lot is practically empty – when someone knocks on his window. He rolls it down, sees an older gentleman, and puts on his best "what's up?" smile. He doesn't think he's in trouble but better to turn the charm on early. He can smell something sweet – ugh, _old people_ – and then there's a cloth on his face and he's smelling it up close, cloying and dizzying and _what the hell_?!

He shoves at the guy's arms, managing to dislodge the cloth and get a lungful of good air. He opens the door fast, hoping to catch Mr. Rogers with it and ask what the fuck is going on with extreme prejudice. Mr. Rogers is quick for an old guy, though, and he jumps out of the way in a surprisingly sprightly move. Dean's usually pretty quick too, but everything's a little blurry around the edges. He stumbles as he's getting out of the car, and the next thing he sees is the tire iron coming for his head.

~~~

He wakes slowly, swimming up through unconsciousness toward a thumping feeling that turns out to be the throbbing in his head. It aches, but that isn't even his worst concern at the moment. No, that would be the fact that he's in his boxers and tied to a chair with what seems like fifty feet of solid rope, tight enough to cut off his circulation.

He looks around, getting his bearings. He's clearly in a basement of a house, and not one that's seen a whole lot of unwilling prisoners. There's a washer and dryer tucked in one corner, a pantry full of homemade canned goods, and if he leans the chair back on two legs and cranes his neck, he can see a cozy-ish area with a thick rug, comfortable chairs, and a TV on the other side of the stairs. 

There are no tools anywhere, definitely no weapons, so the only thing he can do is work on weakening the chair or the rope. His best bet is the chair, so he checks the give in the arms. There's not much, but he only needs a little. He shoves his arms hard forward, until there's absolutely no more movement and then hard back, wiggling the chair arms to see if they have any more give. A little. He does it again, and again, and ignores the rope burns already killing his arms. 

The chair is solidly made, and after a good hour of going at it, he's only got a tiny bit more give in the arm and he could swear the ropes are even tighter. He keeps moving, though, because if he stops long enough for the pain to really kick in, he won't start again. 

He's almost positive this thing is a shapeshifter, which gives him the heebie-jeebies, because chances are the thing is currently walking around wearing his face. He bites at the gag in his mouth and looks down at the yards of rope around his chest and decides, yeah, it's smart enough to use his own skills against him. He's thought about having to tie Sam or Dad up before, for their own good, what he'd need to do make it inescapable. 

The thought of that thing meeting up with an unsuspecting Sam is enough to get him back on track and straining like crazy to get something moving.

~~~

Dean knows it gets dark around nine o'clock, so when it's pitch black in the basement, he knows he's been working at this for about three hours, and all he's got to show for it are bloody arms and a decent-sized wiggle in the left arm of the chair. Still hours away from being able to break it, and for the first time, a brief flash of panic grips him. What if Dad and Sam can't tell it's not him? What if it's already killed them both and is driving Baby off into the sunset?

Thankfully, a door creaks open and interrupts his thoughts – he grits his teeth and starts pulling on the arms of the chair again, his arms a mess at this point, so no use trying to save anything for later. 

"Dean?" 

That's Sam's panic voice, and Dean has never been so glad to hear it in his life. He starts making whatever noise he can – very little, this guy was scarily thorough – and Sam comes bolting down the stairs thirty seconds later, eyes wide and dark in the sudden bright light of the single light bulb Dad switches on from the top of the steps.

"Dean," Sam says again, this time relieved. Then he looks at Dean's arms, his mouth closing tight and small, and pulls his knife out of his boot. 

"You'll be fine," Dad says, thankfully cutting the gag off first thing. 

"Yes sir," Dean answers, though he's glad Sam's the one cutting on the ropes around his arms because they hurt like a sonofabitch.

~~~

There's a content silence to the motel room as they clean Dean up. He thought Sam would be babbling – he's always babbling after a close call like that, can't seem to help himself, but he's just concentrating on bandaging Dean's arms, face in close like he's trying to make sure Dean's all right at the molecular level.

Dad looks thoughtful, something that hasn't happened a lot in recent years, and the few times Dean's seen it, whiskey's been so much of the thought process that he can't trust anything Dad's said. This is different, though, he just stares at the two of them, like he's trying to puzzle something out. 

"So, how did you know it wasn't me?" Dean asks, because of all the things he thought while he was tied up in that chair, that was the one that really shook him, that maybe they wouldn't be able tell the difference and he would die in a basement and no one would be the wiser.

Dad smiles, a half-grin that Dean's stolen and used as his own for years now. It's one of his most useful charming smiles. It's not half as charming on Dad, but Dean bets he was a ladies' man back in the day. "How _did_ you know, Sammy?"

Sam looks up at Dad, guiltily ducking his head and going right back to putting gauze on Dean's arms at a snail's pace. He shrugs. "Dean's never late picking me up."

That's a lie; Dean's late all the time and has forgotten Sam's ass more than once.

"Dean's late to everything," Dad says, and that is _also_ not true, but Dean is staying the hell out of this argument as he's pretty sure it's no longer about him.

Sam stays silent for a while, finally sighing when he realizes he can't lie his way out of it. "A bunch of stuff. Dean was late but he didn't give me shit when I complained. There was a weird smell in the car. It just didn't _feel_ like Dean." 

That puts Dean's fears to rest, though Sam's still avoiding Dad's eyes so Dean guesses there's probably something else to it that they'll never know. Maybe just Sam's intuition, which is scarily good at times and which annoys Dad, probably because Dad's intuition for monsters is excellent, but his intuition about his family is pretty sorely lacking. 

"Well, you can thank your brother that we found you at all. Impressive brain-work, Sammy."

Sam glances up at that, a small smile at Dad. 

Dean knocks his elbow into Sam's shoulder and says, "Thanks." It comes out less sarcastic than it should, but Dean's had a pretty shitty day, all told, they can hardly hold it against him.

Sam looks up at him and smiles, a huge, relieved smile that Dean thinks might have actually been a hug if Dean's arms didn't look like ground hamburger.

"When you're done there," Dad says, an edge to his voice that makes Sam stop what he's doing and makes both of them go rigid, "we need to talk about you going to college next year."

Sam looks up at Dean first, his eyes huge, and then at Dad. Dean looks at Dad too, trying to figure out if this is just the beginning of a familiar fight. Dad doesn't look angry, or even resigned, which is how Dean always imagined Dad caving – Dean just pushing and pushing until he wore Dad down. 

"Are you serious?" Sam asks, his hands shaking.

"Yeah," Dad answers. "You did good today." He stands up, clearly itching to move. Dad's like Dean, they're not talkers, and this is big. This is something that's going to take some words. He starts pacing, four steps from the table to the couch and back. "There are only two reasons I don't want you to go to school."

Sam nods. "You can't protect me."

"That's right, son." Dad paces the distance back to the table and puts his hands down on it. "I know you can take care of yourself, but we watch each other's backs. That's what family is for." He turns and looks at them, staring first at Sam, then Dean. "And that's the second reason, too. I don't want to lose your skills. You think I don't notice, but I do. You make our hunts quicker, smarter, less dangerous. Don't think I don't value that."

Some small part of Dean is wondering if the shifter has taken over Dad, but he can see the bloodstain on the carpet where Dad killed it. Sam corroborated the story, and Dean knows Sam is Sam – he can feel it in his bones. He doesn't know what happened between them while he was out of commission, but it must have been pretty serious.

"I'd rather you didn't stop hunting," Dad says, "but you're a man now. That's up to you." 

Dean doesn't breathe, wondering if he's dreaming, or if maybe there are some lingering effects of whatever drug that thing gave him, but Sam's reaction is just as gobsmacked, and it takes him a full minute to realize he's still got Dean's left arm half-wrapped in gauze. He starts moving again, winding the gauze over Dean's skin and concentrating on it like it will tell him what to say in the face of this windfall.

"Thanks, Dad. That means a lot." Sam keeps wrapping, faster now, like he's not worried about every millimeter of Dean's skin, and it's only another minute before Sam's carefully securing the gauze and digging out the leftover Vicodin he's got in his shaving kit.

Dean swallows two of them and a whole glass of water before climbing into bed first for once, figuring he's earned the right to stretch out and find any comfortable way to sleep that he can.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate POV: [Sam's POV on the shapeshifter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71833680)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New relationships:** Sam/OMC, Dean/OFC (recurring minor characters, both of them)  
>  **Chapter notes:** Possible triggery items include John and Sam fighting (verbal only). Also included in this chapter are mistaking Dean for gay (and interested in Sam), non-explicit Dean/OFC, non-explicit Sam/OMC, and graduate school!Sam

~~~

_Anywhere and Everywhere, with layovers in Palo Alto, California, September 2000 – August 2005_

Once Dad gets on board with Sam's ambitions, he's just as determined to get Sam into a good college as Sam is – maybe more. Dad likes Stanford more than Sam does – Sam doesn't wanted to be on either coast. But Stanford is the only one that offers a full ride and money for housing, so that's where Sam ends up. It takes more convincing to get Dad to go along with the Classics major.

When Sam writes them a new Latin protection ritual as part of independent study project in his sophomore year, though, Dad stops complaining. Dean's just been thrilled that Sammy still takes their calls, that he can still be relied on in a pinch, either to work things out with them over the phone or, if he's near enough, to tear ass to meet them in the ugly old beater Bobby'd fixed up for him as a graduation present.

Things aren't that different for the first few years. Sam just does his research at Stanford, which has the added bonus of a real library that almost always has the books he needs. He comes out with them on weekends sometimes, if they're nearby and he isn't swamped with schoolwork. He spends summers on the hunt with Dean and Dad that are a million times better than before because college-boy Sam is almost never pissy. He's happy enough to do the work when he knows he'll be back at school in the fall. 

Then Dean and Dad start splitting up on small jobs, here and there the first years, and by Sam's fourth year (after he picks up a comparative religions major as well), Dean's on his own most of the time. He doesn't mind working alone or, well, mostly alone – with Sam's research and Sam's voice in his ear every other day. 

It had been pretty exciting, his first case on his own. He'd called Sam six or seven times, and he thinks Sam might even have put in a call to Dad at one point when Dean thought he might be in trouble, but nothing came of it and Dean cracked the case, torched the bones, and came back to Sammy's for a congratulatory beer. 

He works alone more often than not, now, calling Sam every once in a while (or Sam calling him; Sam has a strangely accurate sixth sense for when Dean's stuck or in trouble), and Dad too, checking in every couple of weeks or so. Dean used to try to meet up with him when he was between cases, or get him to come meet him at Sam's, but Dad just said he was busy. 

Sam brings it up to Dean exactly once on the phone, that he worries about Dad, and that maybe they should look into what he's working on, that he's so consumed he won't meet them. Dean knows better, though. He's pushed Dad to the brink about meeting up, and at the end of the day, Dad would break, barking an order to _leave it alone, Dean_ into the phone and Dean had responded as he always did. "Yes, sir." Dean doesn't tell Sam that, but he cuts the conversation short and tells Sam to drop it, which, for once in their lives, Sam does.

The better he gets, the less he needs Sam for research, which works out well because Sam starts getting busy with classwork and goes kind of crazy if they need him while he's working on something big. He never says no, but Dean sees him eating No Doz like they're candy the time Dad's up against a nasty coven of witches in Oregon. Sam unravels their spells with incantations of his own, and creates little protective charms that save all their lives more than once. 

He crashes in the car when Dean drives him back to Stanford, leaning against the window and breathing deeply. Sam still sleeps like he always has, anywhere, anytime. He likes beds, but he can crash wherever, as long as he's sure it's safe. 

Dean's never been able to sleep like that, and it's harder and harder these days to get even the four hours he needs. When he really needs to sleep, when he's worn thin and at his absolute limit, he drives to Sam's place to crash.

It only happens once in a while at first, so he just stretches out on the couch and Sam wakes him the next day with coffee and huevos rancheros from the truly excellent diner down the street. As Dean and Dad start to go their separate ways more often, it's tough to rationalize the cost of a motel so Dean just grabs a few winks in the Impala whenever he's tired. He runs his batteries out more and more often as the years wear on, though, and after one particularly bad morning where one of Sam's roommates' girlfriends finds him passed out on the couch and screams to wake the dead, Sam buys a second bed and stuffs it into his tiny bedroom. There's barely any space left in the room with two beds in there, but Sam just starts studying at the kitchen table and Dean comes back every month or so to sleep on the only bed he can remember as being his very own.

_Somewhere in Nebraska, September, 2005_

Dean glances over at Sam, asleep with his head against the window and mouth open, and he can't help smiling. It's always good to have Sam in the car, and too rare for his liking these days, despite Sam making good on his promise to hunt over the summers and breaks. 

Dean can't believe they're doing this all again, the cross-country drive to get Sam settled at school. 

More school, Dean thinks with a sigh. A Masters and probably a PhD. Dr. Winchester. The thought makes Dean smile, though he doesn't know what else there could possibly be to learn. Sam seems like he's got every bit of weird knowledge about the monsters they hunt and a bunch more about monsters that may or may not exist in his brain already. He'll ask Sam later, maybe, what he expects to get out of this. Maybe why he went in the first place, if it wasn't the white picket fence and 2.5 kids he was looking for. Everything he'd done, keeping up with research and martial arts training and taking courses specifically geared toward helping them hunt – he thought for sure that Sam was just going to come back at the end of it and they'd hunt together again, back in the family business. 

That dream's been put on hold for another who knows how many years now. Maybe it'll never come, maybe it'll be Dean on the road and Sam in school and Dad off doing his own thing forever – and that's on Dean's mind more and more these days. The safer Sam seems to be, the more off the rails Dad seems to go. 

This is the first time they've seen Dad in over a year. Phone calls on the holidays, a few research requests, but no hunts together, no down time, no nothing. Dean's pretty sure he wouldn't be with them now if Sam hadn't mutinously said they needed his truck to haul all his research books to Chicago. They'd both been in the room when Sam made the call; Dean doesn't know whether or not Dad was on a case, but a heavy sigh came over the line and Dad'd said, "Fine, Sammy, I'll be there in ten hours."

It'd been just enough time to pack everything up and crash on the twin mattresses in the middle of the living room; the last night Dean would be spending on his mattress before they moved it halfway across the country. 

It's currently in the back of Dad's truck, packed in tightly next to Sam's, held in place by case after case of books Sam refused to leave behind. He'd left everything except the mattresses, the books, and the desk – which wasn't even his, though Dean figures it might be a common-law marriage by this point. The roommate it'd belonged to had moved out without telling anyone and probably hadn't wanted to risk alerting Sam to his departure, considering he'd owed two months' worth of rent. It's huge and oddly-shaped, but the lacquer is missing in two thin stripes from Sam's strangely particular study habits, the worn-down area where his arms rest as he reads and takes notes.

All this thinking about sleeping is making him tired. Sam's out for the night and they can't move him in until the day after tomorrow anyway, so Dean pulls off at the first cheap motel he can find and laughs when they get to the rooms and finds they're pirate-themed, right down to the stuffed parrot sitting on the crappy TV. Dad gives him a half-hearted salute as he goes into the room next to theirs, smiling fondly as Sam practically sleepwalks into the doorframe.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, September 2005_

The second day of driving is as smooth as the first, and they check into a motel that's a couple blocks away from Sam's new place. It's nice, a two-story house that's been kept up pretty well, for a rental property in a college town. Dean thought Sam'd rented out one of the floors, but Sam told him he'd rented the whole house – he's going to get roommates when he can screen them personally, but he's paid for the first two months up front to give him some breathing room. 

Dean keeps meaning to ask where Sam's getting his money, especially when he takes them out to dinner at a local bar and grill and orders the steak and lobster. He doesn't want to talk about it in front of Dad, though, so he puts it on his mental list of "Sam stuff" and leaves it for the week after Dad's off hunting again and Dean sticks around to make sure Sam is settled in.

They shoot the shit over steak and beer, talking about cases they've worked, and other hunters they've run into. Dean's surprised to find out Sam's handled some cases on his own back at Stanford, nothing too tough, but still – he doesn't like the thought of Sam hunting on his own. 

Dad seems pleased to hear it, though, so Dean keeps his mouth shut. He knows he's just being overprotective and Sam obviously doesn't need that anymore. He signals the waitress for another round, but he can't seem to find her. The dinner rush is over and the place looks more like the bar part of the bar and grill, so he heads up to the bar to order. 

The bartender is a hot brunette with long legs and a big smile, and her eyes twinkle when she sets them on Dean, so he drops off the beers for Sam and Dad and heads back to the bar to make small talk for a while. 

When he looks over his shoulder at their booth a little while later, it's clean and empty. He glances around the bar until he sees Sam and Dad at the pool tables, talking and smiling like he can't remember ever seeing them, and for a long second, Dean's conquest is forgotten. He never thought he'd see the day when Sam and Dad could be civil, much less get along well enough to play pool together.

The bartender – Shannon – makes a whistling noise near his ear. "They're pretty hot," she says, and leans in to whisper, "I'll take the older guy, you can have the tall one."

Dean chokes on his beer, coughing hard while she slaps him on the back. "Sorry," she says, slapping him harder, "I was just teasing."

"S'my brother and my dad," Dean wheezes, and catches her hand before she can whack him again.

Her eyes widen at that, and she takes her hand back and wrings it in the other one. "Well, the good looks clearly run in the family." She grabs his beer away and hands him a fresh bottle. "Sorry. I was just messing with you. I thought we were having a moment, and then I saw your head turn at a couple of good-looking guys, I just thought…" She shrugs apologetically. 

Dean shakes his head. It's not the first time someone's said that about him and Sam, but it's a little creepy to have Dad in the mix. "No problem. You can make it up to me when you get off your shift." He smiles at her, his most charming smile, and she smiles back at him, a bit tentatively, and turns to a customer at the other end of the bar.

He sighs. He'd had that one in the bag, he's pretty sure – it's been too long since he's been out with Sam, having to keep an eye on him while he flirts. He used to have it down pat. After one too many strikeouts with women who were sure he was overcompensating for his sexual identity crisis, he'd found a way to keep an eye on Sam that didn't seem overly-invested, but apparently he's lost that skill in the years since they've hunted together. He makes a mental note to be sure Sam hunts with him next summer so he can get back in practice.

He watches Sam and Dad play pool. He's wondering if the Winchester competitive streak is going to get them in trouble, when a couple of guys come over to chat. Dean grins when the money hits the bumper and sits back against the bar, watching Sam play shy. They win the first game on pure luck – or at least that's what their marks think, and Dad calls for a round of shots, to prove he's not a sore winner, and to make it look like he's getting really hammered. Dean knows this playbook like the back of his hand.

Sam pulls back on his break, clusters the balls all together in the center of the table so the game will take a while to get moving, give Dad a chance to look like he's getting really drunk. Sam plays his part perfectly, making all the straightforward shots and missing the more complicated ones by no more than an inch, blocking all of their marks' lines "on accident." 

One of the guys hands Sam a shot of a light liquor – tequila, probably – and he takes it, shyly sipping at it like he and Dean hadn't finished off most of a bottle of Jack doing shots two nights ago, trying to drink each other under the table before Dad got in. 

"He's pretty good," Shannon says. She's leans forward on the bar right next to Dean, brushing their arms together. "You guys hustle a lot of pool?"

Dean shrugs, shifting to rub his arm against hers. Maybe he can still salvage this. "It's a living."

Shannon laughs, and nudges him with her elbow. "I'll send over another round of shots. What are they drinking?"

"Oh, surprise 'em. Doesn't matter at this point."

As the waitress takes the round over to them, Dean settles in and watches the guys circle the table. One of them – the one that gave Sam a shot and is handing him another now – sticks close to Sam and leans in to shout in his ear from time to time. Someone'd turned up the music a couple hours ago and it's loud enough to encourage leaning in to be able to talk.

The other one looks sharper and keeps his eye on Dad, like he's not entirely sure this isn't a con. Dad's has had a lot of practice at playing drunk, though, and he's doing his part admirably, knocking the balls around without sinking anything. 

"I think your brother has an admirer," Shannon says, and Dean watches more closely as Sam's new friend hands him a third shot. Sam's playing drunk too and he knocks his shoulder into the guy – "thanks" in Sam nonverbal-speak. Sam circles the table, coming almost all the way back around before he bends over to take his shot. His new buddy stares at his ass like he wants to take a bite and Dean blinks. He'd totally missed that. He glances at Dad to see if he's caught it, and he has. He's watching the guy, too. 

Dean watches Sam more closely, trying to figure out if he knows he's being hit on, whether or not he's using that, and whether or not he actually wants to do anything about it. He takes a couple of deep breaths and concentrates on Sammy, watching his movements closely.

After a couple of minutes and another shot from his new boyfriend, Dean's sure that Sam's aware of what's going on. He's also pretty sure, based on the way he's picking his shots and leaning over the table, that he's using it to his advantage. That's what Dad seems to see too, and he's grinning like he's proud of Sam for figuring that out.

What he doesn't think Dad's noticed (why would he, he doesn't know Sam's into guys) is that Sam actually kind of likes the dude. When he leans down to shout in the guy's ear, he flashes a real grin, one that's hidden from Dad, but that Dean can see easily, and it makes his guts twist. 

The odds are 70/30 that the night will end in a fistfight, depending on how Sam plays the next game. He and Dad won game two sloppily, lulling their marks into dropping some serious cash on the table. Dad reaches for his wallet but Sam beats him to the punch, plopping down several bills on top of the growing wad of cash on the bumper.

That makes even his new boyfriend nervous, but Sam shrugs and says something with a loose, drunken smile, and the marks are back on board, racking up the balls eagerly. 

Dean gets up off his stool and Shannon grabs his arm. He turns around just enough to dislodge her hand, but she grabs him again, firmly. She's got strong hands. "Hey," she says, and there's a note of warning in her voice that makes Dean turns to look at her. "If this ends up violent, I'm going to have to chase you all out of here with the shotgun I have under the bar."

She looks down meaningfully. Dean smiles at her – he really likes this woman. "We've got it under control," he says. They can't make trouble in what's likely to become Sam's local. "I'll make sure they take it outside."

She nods, smiling at him. "Why don't you come back later to settle up your tab with all that cash?" She tips her head toward the pool table. "We close at two."

Dean grins, a slow smile that telegraphs his intent. He's still got it. "I'll do that. See you later."

He leaves a twenty on the bar as down payment and makes his way over to one of the tables at the edge of the pool area to watch the final game play out. If Sam's in a mood, he'll play the last game fast and clean, eyes sharp and be unbelievably smug at the end of it. That almost always gets them in a fight, which is probably Sam's motive. He doesn't get into a lot of bar brawls when he's being a good college boy.

Sam likes his new boyfriend, though, so he might play it sloppy like the last game, just to try and keep things civil, see if he can get lucky. Dean doesn't know how often Sam brings guys home, but he doesn't want to think about it much. There hasn't been a boyfriend or a girlfriend in the entire run at Stanford – at least, not one Dean's seen or heard about, and he's pretty sure Sam would've told him if there was anything serious. 

Dean watches Sam play the middle line – still acting drunk, but making shots like the pool shark he is, running the table, clean, sinking the eight ball easily in the side pocket at the end. Dad smiles big, standing up on wobbly legs, obviously hoping they can get out without a fight. 

It looks like the suspicious-guy is planning on complaining, but Sam's new boyfriend heads him off at the pass. "Fair's fair," he says, dropping a napkin on the pile of cash and ushering his friend away from the table. 

Dean nods his approval as they pass him. He hurries over to the pool table, trying to scoop up the spoils. Dad beats him to it, though, taking the napkin in hand and chuckling. "Dave wants you to call him," he says, and Sam's eyes dart away from Dad's. "Good job playing him."

Sam smiles, pride and sadness twisted up in his expression. Dad claps him on the shoulder, tucking the napkin into Sam's shirt pocket. "Let's go," he says. "I'm too old to move house with a hangover."

He walks away and Sam turns his eyes to Dean, the shock on his face probably an exact match for Dean's. "Did you tell him?" Sam hisses.

Dean frowns. Ungrateful little shit. "Of course not. He's just got eyes in his head. Anyone could see you were into that guy."

Sam looks uncertain, and Dean's not actually sure that Dad picked it up tonight, but he didn't tell Dad and that's the only thing that Sam needs to understand right now. "I wouldn't tell him, Sammy, and if you think I would, then you don't know me as well as I thought." 

He starts to follow Dad out of the bar, but Sam grabs his elbow and flips him around. "Sorry," he says. "I just…"

"You thought Dad would freak out if he knew," Dean says. "Obviously we were both wrong about that one."

Sam nods, his hangdog expression when he's made a mistake and is beating himself up about it worse than Dean or Dad ever could.

Dean gives him a shove toward the door. "You going to call him?" he needles, and Sam gets pissy face when he answers.

"None of your business, Dean."

Dean grins as they head out of the bar. For the Winchesters, that was a pretty good night, and it's not over yet – he turns around to see if Shannon's got her eye on him, and she waves. 

Oh yeah, he's still got it.

~~~

Shannon lives upstairs from the bar – turns out she's the proprietor – and they have a really good night. He helps her close up shop and as a reward, gets to see her impressive toy collection. For a moment, Dean thinks he might have gotten in over his head, but she just pulls out the cuffs and says, "let's start slow."

~~~

Sam's already nursing a coffee when he gets back to the motel the next morning, nodding his head at the table, where there's one for Dean. "Have a good night?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, she was fun. Picked the cuffs out of habit, though."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You take all the fun out of things."

"Nah," Dean says. "She tied me to the bed after that. Silk scarves and shit."

Sam grins. "Smart girl." He plays with the sleeve on his coffee for a minute before he says, "I called Dave."

"Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah." He plays with the sleeve more, watching it intently. "We're meeting back at the bar tonight."

"Oh, good," Dean says. "I'll tag along, see if Shannon's up for another round."

~~~

Before they can have their fun, they have to move Sam into his new place. With the three of them, it takes roughly an hour and a half to get the boxes piled up in appropriate rooms (Sam has insisted that the second upstairs bedroom is Dean's; his twin bed is put in there along with all the weapons, magic crap, and anything it might be best for an idle snooper not to find). The rest of the books go in the living room and there are a few boxes of junk for the kitchen, and then it's off shopping. Dad takes Sam to the grocery store while Dean goes out to find furniture.

Dean's always had a knack for finding decent stuff at thrift shops. As Sam's roomies moved in and out over the five years at Stanford, they'd had to buy nearly every piece of furniture known to man. Dean's always been able to come back with serviceable furniture – except for beds, which Sam simply insisted had to be bought new. 

By the time he's finished with Salvation Army and Goodwill, he's got a couch, a coffee table, a kitchen table and chairs, and two nightstands in the back of Dad's truck. It's good enough.

~~~

The house Sam's picked is on a corner with a big yard in the back. It means he only has one real neighbor, and that house doesn't seem overly-well taken care of. Dean's secretly glad for that, because the yelling from inside the house is audible from the driveway. Dean leaves the furniture in the truck and hurries inside, hoping he's not too late to talk them down.

"Dad, I'm not a child. Just tell me what you've found out."

Dean stops in his tracks, his breath heavy in his chest. That's the last thing he expected to hear out of Sam. 

"Son, when you need to know something –"

"I need to know something _now_ ," Sam answers, roaring in that way he does when he's really pissed off. Most people would probably be afraid of Sam when he's full-tilt like this, but of course Dad doesn't back down.

"You need to know when I say you need to know," Dad says, and Dean starts moving, running into the living room because they've hit the kind of impasse that could mean the argument ends with violence. 

Sure enough, as soon as he sees Sam, he can see his hands are curled into fists at his side and his whole body is vibrating in the way it does when he is using every ounce of his self-control. Dean goes right past Dad, straight up to Sammy, putting his hands up, pressing back on Sam's chest. 

"Back off," Dean says, making sure he keeps himself between them. Sam's not looking at him, staring over his shoulder at Dad with a mutinous look on his face.

Dean glances over his shoulder at Dad. Dad looks more in control than Sam; Dean barks, "Walk it off, Dad." 

Dad smirks, a really unattractive, thin smile, and turns around, walking out of the room leisurely, like he's taunting Sam. Dean just rolls his eyes, putting his attention back on Sam. Sam presses forward, like he plans to follow, but Dean just keeps blocking him until he hears the back door slam shut. 

Sam spins away from him suddenly, throwing a sharp punch into the wall. "Damn it, Dean."

~~~

Dean distracts Sam by making him help move in the new furniture. Movement usually helps him burn off his anger, and Dean won't get him to talk about it while he's pissed off. So they move in the couch and the table and the nightstands, and then crack open a couple of beers, sitting quietly on the couch for a few minutes to cool down.

"So, what was that about?" Dean asks, not bothering to tiptoe around it. Sam'd been pissed off about something in particular, something big, not the nebulous kind of frustration he always has with Dad, a fine tremor of tension underlying all their interactions.

"Nothing," Sam says mulishly, suddenly very interested in the label of his bottle.

Dean puts his hand on Sam's arm, waiting for Sam to look up at him because they don't do this too often. They don't need to; when Dad's not around, they don't even need to talk most of the time, they're just attuned to each other in some weird way. Sam's eyes shift off his bottle and onto Dean's hand. They rest there for a beat before he looks up to meet Dean's eyes. "Sam," Dean says, leaving it there because he knows Sam will do a better job of figuring out what Dean wants to know if Dean doesn't use words.

Sam frowns at him, and Dean can almost hear all the excuses Sam is ticking through in his head: _it's no big deal_ , _you know how Dad is_ , _it just got out of hand_. Dean knows there's something going on, though, so he just waits.

Sam sighs and tips his beer up, finishing the last half of it in a few long swallows. 

"I think Dad's hunting a demon."

Sam doesn't look at him when he says it, just keeps picking at the label on his beer.

"What?" Dean can't have heard that right. A demon, that's huge. He's never even seen one. Heard about a few, from Bobby and Pastor Jim, but he's never been sure they aren't hunters' fairy tales. "A real one?"

Sam nods. "He has me researching summoning rituals."

Dean blinks. Dad wants to _summon_ a demon? That seems risky. "What for?"

"No idea. He won't tell me." Sam smiles ruefully. "That's what I was grilling him about when you came in. I'm not about to give him a summoning ritual and let him go off on his own again."

Damn it all. Dean wipes a hand down his face. "Sorry, Sammy." 

Sam just shakes his head, getting up to set his bottle down next to the sink. "I have to get ready to meet Dave," he says from the kitchen. "You want first shower?"

~~~

When Dean gets in at the crack of dawn the next day, he's not even remotely thinking about sleeping. Shannon had been in for another round – two, actually – and he'd stuck around long enough to doze a little before getting out of there.

He digs through the boxes in the kitchen to find the coffeemaker and puts on a pot of coffee. It isn't long before he hears footsteps on the stairs, so he yells, "Up and at 'em, Sammy, big day today."

"Oh yeah?" an unfamiliar voice says, and Dean whirls around, all senses on high alert, inventorying the weapons on his body and in close range. Then he sees Dave standing just inside the kitchen doorway.

"Oh," Dean says, keeping his eyes on Dave's face though he's not wearing anything except boxer-briefs and a t-shirt that's so thin he might as well not bother. "I didn't realize you were here."

Dave shrugs. "And I didn't realize Sam was _Sammy_."

Dean laughs, the tension leaving him in a rush and he picks up another box to go digging for coffee mugs. "Big brother's prerogative."

He pulls out a pair of mugs, glancing at Dave with a grin. The look of relief on his face is comical, and Dean would chafe at being thought of as Sam's boyfriend except he's chafing at the fact that the dude thinks anyone who had Dean at home would bother to cheat on him. He decides to let it go. Obviously Sam likes this guy, so Dean's got to give him a chance. Maybe Sam will finally think about settling down.

"We don't have any milk, but there might be some sugar in here somewhere." Dean holds up the novelty mug with a penis as a handle, and Dave just shakes his head, though he's smiling. 

"Your loss," Dean says, taking the penis mug and stuffing it under the drip to let it fill. He needs his caffeine. "So, light sleeper?"

"Not really," Dave says with a nonchalant shrug. "Just can't –"

"Sleep in someone else's house?" Dean finishes for him. Dean knows that feeling intimately. It took him weeks to settle into Bobby's house when he was a kid, and they'd visited him every few months for years.

Dave laughs. It's a good laugh, and Dean smiles. He likes this guy. "It's a twin bed, and Sam is a little…"

Dean laughs too, pulling his mug out from under the coffee and replacing the pot. "Gigantic," he says, smiling around the mug. 

"Yeah."

Dave gives in and accepts the mug of coffee, so Dean goes digging for another mug for his brother. Sam's not a light sleeper, but he's not a heavy one either, so Dean expects him to be down any minute, sure voices will draw him. 

Dave is talking about his work - he's an audio engineer, which Dean doesn't give a shit about, honestly, but it's something to talk about that isn't what _Dean_ does for a living, so he smiles and pretends to care. 

"Morning," Sam says when he finally makes it to the kitchen. 

Dean hands him his coffee, and Dave looks a little spooked. There's a creaky stair, though, so Dean had heard him coming. By the next time Dean visits, Sam will have memorized the creaky spots and will be able to sneak up on him, too. 

"Morning," Dean says, pouring himself another cup. 

"I see you've met my brother," Sam says, sitting down at the rickety kitchen table. 

Dave seems unsure; Dean's guess is he was expecting more physical contact for a morning after – a good morning kiss, maybe, or some other sign of affection. Sam isn't that touchy-feely, though, and to be fair, Dean teases the shit out of him when he is, so Dave's fighting a losing battle there. Dean looks back and forth between them and decides to cut Dave some slack. 

"You know what?" he says, finishing up his coffee and setting the mug down on the counter. "I'm hungry. I'm going to run out and get us some breakfast."

Sam's looking at him with a confused sort of face, like he can't figure out what's going on. Dean just wants to shake him. He stares at Sam hard, willing him to get it. After a minute, Sam's eyes go wide and he's on board. "Great," he says. "Sounds good."

 _Finally_. Dean backs out the door, a nod and a grin to Dave, an eyeroll to his brother. As he climbs into the Impala, he wracks his brain to remember any of the restaurants they passed on their way to Sam's new place.

~~~

When Dean gets back, three styrofoam boxes in hand, Dave's gone, and Sam's already unpacked most of the kitchen. He reaches out for the food like he's starving. "Gimme," he says, and Dean holds out Sam's breakfast, not willing to get in between Sam and his food.

Sam sits down at the table, wolfing everything down with his fingers because he obviously hasn't found the silverware yet. Dean sets the other containers down on the counter and digs through boxes until he finds a fork, and then sits down to eat like a civilized person. Sam's already done with his, eyeing up the second container Dean's got.

"What's that?" he asks, and Dean rolls his eyes and shoves it over.

"It was for Dave," he says, mouth full. "But since you scared him off, I suppose you can have it."

Sam grabs for the styrofoam and Dean sets a fork on top of it. "Seriously, dude. Utensils."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Because talking with your mouth full isn't Neanderthal at all." 

Dean laughs, his mouth open and spraying food across the table. Sam just lifts his food out of the way, waiting for Dean to settle down before digging back in. "I'm _starving_."

They finish breakfast in silence, and when Dean gets up to pile the trash in the sink, annoyed that they didn't think to get garbage bags yesterday, he says, "What happened to Dave, anyway?"

"Oh, he had to work," Sam says, like Dean won't question that lie. 

"He's an audio engineer," Dean says, wondering what the hell that might actually entail. "They work on weekends?"

Sam tilts his head at Dean, like he's trying to figure out if Dean's being truly thick or not. "Dean, it's Thursday."

Oh. Dean's not great at the whole week/weekend thing normally, but the bar was reasonably full when they were there the other night – and that just doesn't happen a lot during the week. Maybe it's different in a big town; not that he'd consider this area part of Chicago proper, but it's probably close enough to get a little of the big town feel.

"Well," Dean says, "Let's get you unpacked and pick up the rest of the crap you'll need."

~~~

They spend the rest of the day putting books on every available flat surface and making lists of things they forgot to get yesterday. Dean's getting a little nervous that Dad hasn't stopped by yet, but sometimes he gets bitchy with Sam and pulls Sam's own tricks on him. He's already decided to call before dinner, see if they can meet up before Dad goes off on another case.

They take a trip to Target for the last essentials, laundry baskets and garbage cans and Sam whips out a credit card with Sam Winchester on it in raised block letters. Dean stares at it. He's never had a credit card with his own name on it. 

He looks up at Sam, wondering how the hell Sam became _this_ , an honest-to-god citizen with debt and a degree and… it's weird, like he exists in two dimensions at once. Dean has a very black and white existence. There are people who know about what he does and how he does it – hunters and victims (who often turn into hunters themselves out of sheer necessity to protect their sanity), and people who don't – the blithe masses they walk by every day, with their shopping bags and uncomplicated smiles and credit histories, and Dean's breath catches a little bit. Somehow Sammy's found a way to hold onto this little piece of normality, and Dean is heart-stoppingly jealous. He wants to take it away, rip it up, bring Sammy back on the road with them, where he belongs. 

"Dean?" 

Dean looks up at Sam's face and realizes he's been staring at Sam's credit card for a long moment. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand down his face, involuntarily shuddering. 

"You okay?" 

Sam's voice is laced with concern and something else; amusement, maybe, or something like it, but darker. Like he knew what Dean was thinking. Dean shakes it off. "Fine. Just tired. Long night with Shannon."

Sam rolls his eyes but he's smiling, dimples showing up and wiping away all the creeping dark thoughts of the last minutes. Dean breathes into his smile, the feeling of relief rising like a balloon in his chest.

~~~

When they get back to the house, there's a note on the table. _Boys, there's something I have to take care of in St. Louis._

Sam slams his fist down on the table hard enough to make it jump, and Dean doesn't complain when he pulls out a bottle of tequila and they get shitfaced bitching about Dad.

~~~

Dean stays just long enough for Sam to get settled in. He catches wind of a case in Tennessee the day before Sam's classes start and puts the finishing touches on his room before packing a duffel bag and getting on the road. Dave comes over just as Dean's heading out and Dean's not quite sure what to make of the solemn nod he gets in greeting.

He forgets about it as soon as he sits down in Baby, getting on the road and letting it rip, the asphalt lying open in front of him, inviting.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now is the time to introduce a little more history. The current story is all "current" timeline, but there's a lot of pre-story stuff that's useful, and then an alternate POV to the fight with Dad.
> 
> [Sam gets cursed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71835783) Sam POV (he's a child)  
> [Prologue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71836092) Outside POV and what happened to get Sam cursed  
> [The TALK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71836608) Sam POV on John explaining the curse to him and what he needs to do  
> [Sam POV on the fight with his dad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71836932)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter notes:** No new warnings or triggery material. This chapter includes both Dean/OFC and Sam/OMC, nomad!Dean having second thoughts, frank discussion of sex toys and pegging, mention of top!Sam, and the angst starts fairly light here but will ramp up pretty quickly in upcoming chapters.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, September – November 2005_

Having Sam in Chicago changes the game, and not in the ways than Dean might've expected, if he'd thought about it. He knows Sam wanted to be closer to the middle of the country so there was a higher chance he could get to them, if he needed to – and he does. Apparently as a graduate student, his schedule is more flexible, so he shows up on hunts now and again, and Dean is grateful for the backup. Hunting is a lonely damn job.

The part that he wasn't expecting, though, is that seeing Sam more makes him want to see Sam even more – so he comes back to Chicago between hunts. He comes home. 

_Home._

He figures out some months later that Sam owns the house they moved him into, and he obviously lied about finding roommates as there are never any new people there when Dean pops in. One of the big rooms becomes a study, or library, or both, a big desk and lots of bookshelves that seem to fill up a little more every time Dean comes back. 

He doesn't know where Sam's money comes from, but he's grateful for it, for a home base that's stocked with beer and frozen pizza and six hundred channels of cable. He doesn't honestly spend that much time there, maybe five or six nights a month, but it's enough to make him realize how much he likes having somewhere to call home that isn't the Impala.

Not only does he have a home, he has his own room. He has a place where he can put stuff, and he knows it will be there when he gets back. So now he has _stuff_. And Sam gives him stuff, too, which makes Dean's heart come up in his throat uncomfortably because Sam gets him stuff (and it's always perfect stuff, too – a turntable and pristine Led Zeppelin vinyl, vintage porn mags, a tiny, perfect replica of Baby) and he has a room where his stuff is kept and it's all more than he can handle sometimes. 

He thinks Dad has a room too; at least there's a third bedroom downstairs with a bed that Sam keeps clean like he has guests to sleep in a guest room. He thinks there're probably clothes in the drawers that would fit Dad. His own dresser full of jeans and flannels and socks and henleys and boxers showed up after a few months, with a couple of carefully empty drawers where he put his favorite band t-shirts and his leather jacket in the summertime. 

Sammy finds it one time when he's lounging on Dean's bed, listening to Dean talk about his hunt and makes him pull it out and hang it up, making distressed noises about Dean not having anything hung up in his closet. The next time he comes home, there's a bunch of stuff hung in his closet – a couple of nice suits, which freak Dean out, honestly, what would he need a suit for? – and a couple of jackets, all things he sees in normal people closets all the time, but he's never had a closet of his own, never had hangers or anything to put on them. 

So now he has a home, and a room, and stuff, and a closet, and the whole thing just makes him lighter in some way, makes him hopeful and happy and keeps him sharp because now if he doesn't come back from a hunt, Sam will have to pack up his room and that seems so much worse than just finding Dean's body, giving him a hunter's funeral and taking the Impala.

_Home._

~~~

Dave becomes something of a fixture. He's there almost every time Dean is, and they have awkward conversations over coffee in the morning, or silently share space in the living room when they're waiting for Sam to come home from class.

Dean gets in early one night, just wanting a beer and maybe some porn, since the waitress in the diner wasn't actually up for a quickie in the kitchen like he thought, so he grabs a six pack and heads up to his room. Sam got him his own TV and cable box because he and Dave fight about what to watch all the time. He knows Sam has a TV in his room, too, which is funny since he can't remember the last time Sammy actually sat down and watched a movie.

As he climbs the stairs, though, he can hear the unmistakable sounds of sex, moans and groans, and someone babbling incoherently. Fuck. He hurries up the stairs and past the master bedroom to his own room, closing the door and turning the TV, flipping through the channels with single-minded purpose. It takes him a while to find any porn, and he starts in, hard and fast, because he's got a case of blue balls from the waitress, and the sex noises from down the hall aren't helping anything. 

After a minute or two, though, he slows down, thinking he should probably drag things out in case the happy couple decides to take their time. Dean's not sure why he knows that Sam likes a slow build, but he does, so he can tell from the solid rhythmic nature of the sounds coming from their room that it's going to be a while. He sighs and settles in, watching the close-ups of blowjobs and then fucking and thinking that somehow, porn has lost its charm. 

He mutes the TV, closes his eyes, and tries to construct his own fantasy, something starring one of the better decisions he's made while on the road – Lisa, the yoga teacher or Cassie, the Ohio state student. Unfortunately the sounds coming from the master bedroom are way too deep to be anyone of Dean's persuasion, and he looks down at his dick, annoyed that it can be turned on and completely unwilling to work with what he's got. 

"Fine," he mutters, and lets go of his dick to grab his phone. He scrolls down to Shannon and dials her number, hoping she's around and available.

_"Dean,"_ Shannon says, picking up after not even a full ring.

"Hey, Shannon," Dean says. "How're things?"

Shannon's sultry laugh comes over the line. _"Looking up, if you're calling to tell me you're in town."_

Oh, that is so what he wanted to hear. "In fact, I'm three blocks away from you right now," Dean says. "You working tonight?"

_"Yeah, but it's slow and Pete can handle the bar. Why don't you come on over?"_

~~~

Someday, Dean thinks he might like to show Shannon the trunk of the Impala. He feels like she might appreciate his weapon collection with the same sort of bemused fondness he has for her sex toy collection.

"I don’t know, Shan, just… whatever you want. I'm dying here."

Shannon comes up behind him, putting her arms around his waist and peeking around his shoulder to look down at her collection. They haven't tried that much, really, and he's been on the fence about most of it – turns out he's not nearly as kinky as he thought he would be. It's fine, the blindfolds and gags and nipple clamps and cat-o-nine-tails, but it doesn't really do anything for him. 

The thing that does it for him is when she quietly takes control and uses him to get what she wants. The rest of it just revolves around that piece of the puzzle. He's always appreciated women who know what they want and are willing to go get it.

So when Shannon hums and says, "How would you feel about…", he's ready to go right along, his answer is always yes. 

But then she says, "…me fucking you with a strap-on," and he has to reconsider. Their relationship is built on honesty, though – about the sex, because Dean can't be completely honest with a civilian, no matter how much he likes her – so he says, "Not sure." 

"Huh," Shannon says, slithering around him and putting herself between him and the dresser. "How come?"

There's very little Dean's not willing to do, but saying he doesn't have experience with something in his sex life is one of those things. Before he can get together a good answer, she says, "Do you think it makes you gay?"

He has to tamp down on his automatic reaction, which is pissed off and ready for a fight. He never gets into it when Sammy's around (and he knows Sam isn't "gay" but it's the insult that bothers him, not the accuracy of the name calling) but he shuts that shit down whenever he hears it, from anyone, and the "What's wrong with being gay?" that comes out makes her tilt her head at him.

"Nothing, Dean," she says, smiling at him. "But that's not the kind of reaction I was expecting. Most guys don't want me anywhere near their ass because they feel like it lessens their masculinity somehow." She pauses, gives Dean a long look, and says, "And this is where roughly half the men I play with get kicked out of my bedroom permanently."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I don't care," he says. "My brother's bi and I don't care about that shit. I've just never…"

Her eyes light up. "Never?" she breathes, grinning at him. "Your brother's queer and you never wanted to see what that felt like?"

He can feel his face go slack with surprise. "Why would I? I really don't want to think about my brother while I'm having sex."

"Well, yeah," Shannon says, "obviously, but… Don't you want to know what it feels like? Aren't you curious?"

He hadn't been, up until about two seconds ago.

"And to tell you the truth, Sam's hot. I totally would think about him during sex."

"Brother," Dean grits out, and she laughs. 

"Only child." 

"Damn it, woman," Dean says. "Stop talking about my brother and get your strap-on ready."

~~~

"I know why I'm limping," Dave says the next morning over coffee, the amusement coming across in his voice, "but why are you?"

Dean keeps stirring his coffee, leaning back against the counter. "Same reason."

Dave gapes. "Because your brother is hung like a horse?"

_Whoa._ Way too much information. Dean can't help the look of surprise and dismay that comes over his face, but he recovers quickly enough to say, "Well, Shannon's strap-on is hung like a horse, I guess." It wasn't, really. It'd seemed kind of smallish, but Dean's ass is new to this sort of thing and he's not sharing that information with anyone, least of all Dave.

"Uh-huh," Dave says, and there's surprise and maybe grudging respect there. "I hadn't really pictured you as the pegging type."

Dean shrugs. "Shannon's pretty convincing. And she's smart, too, said maybe I should have a clue what Sam was getting up to, you know. To be supportive or whatever."

Dave busts out into a surprised laugh. "Oh my god, Dean, do you really not know?"

Whatever it is, Dean doesn't _want_ to know. He never wanted to think about Sam's sex life in detail, and the last twenty-four hours or so has been way more information on that topic than he's interested in, but before he can shut Dave down, he continues with, "Sam is a top. The toppiest top I've ever seen, actually."

That stops Dean cold. He's only about eighty percent sure he understands what Dave means, and now he's doing exactly what he doesn't want to do and trying to understand not just gay sex, but how his brother might have gay sex, and he can't help the way his face is screwing up into something that makes Dave look at him with sympathy. "So he never…" Dean can't believe those words even escaped his mouth. He doesn't want to know. "No, no, stop. I don't want to know. Ever. We're done. Don't tell me anything else."

"All right." Dave smirks. "So tell me about the pegging. Did you like it?"

~~~

For a few days, Dean sees more of Dave than Sam. It's just how their schedules shake out sometimes; Dean goes nocturnal for a week or two every six months or so; stays up all night and crashes just after dawn. Dave's an early riser, so they have breakfast together most mornings before Dave gets ready for work and Dean falls into bed, exhausted.

He sees Sam over dinner one night, sort of, grabbing a slice out of the pizza box Sam has open while he researches something in the office. "Hey," he says.

"Hey." Sam doesn't even look up, just keeps flipping through four different books, making notes and cross-referencing. 

"What're you working on?"

"Case for Dad," Sam answers, continuing his rhythmic studying. He stops after a second and looks up at Dean. "Demon."

"Whoa," Dean says, shaking his head in disbelief. A real demon. It's hard to believe. "Is he sure?"

"Pretty sure," Sam answers, but he doesn't look interested in it, not the way he used to be when he researched for them as a kid. He's concentrating hard, but that's just the way he is about researching. He does the job right – even if he's not interested in the monsters themselves. Then again, Sam's never really been into the job the way Dean's been into the job; he supposes he should be grateful Sam's still helping out at all. 

Dean takes a breath to ask another question but Sam beats him to the punch, setting down the book he's reading and looking Dean in the eye when he says, "Dean, I'm trying to concentrate. Do you mind?"

He looks annoyed, of all things. Dean puts his hands up, a silent apology, and backs out of the room, grabbing another slice on the way out. It's gross – who puts broccoli on pizza? – but he just wants to get Sam's goat. Sam doesn't even notice, his head down in the books again.

~~~

Dean's zoning out to a CSI marathon when Sam finally emerges from the library, looking worn. "You look tired," Dean says.

Sam hesitates. He'd been heading for the stairs, probably to go up and drop into bed. "Yeah," he answers. "But I could use a little winding down time." He detours to the kitchen and grabs a beer instead, coming to sit next to Dean on the couch. 

"How's the demon stuff coming?" Dean asks. He can't believe Dad's on the trail of a demon. Maybe he'll ask if he needs help.

"Okay," Sam says. "Can't find the info Dad needs, but Bobby had a couple of exorcisms and now that I have an example, I'm going to try to write a better one, maybe in Aramaic."

Dean smiles. Now that's the kind of reaction he expected out of Sam. "What's wrong with the ones Bobby sent you?"

"It's a two step process," Sam says. "Getting it out of the possessed human, and then send its incorporeal ass back to hell."

"How the hell do you contain something incorporeal?" Dean asks. That sounds like a nightmare.

"Exactly!" Sam says, grinning. "Apparently as long as you're kind of close while you say the second verse, it's good enough, but I'm pretty sure I can find a way to exorcise it straight from the human to hell. Why take chances?" 

"Makes sense," Dean says. "Can they leave while you're casting? Go incorporeal on purpose?"

Sam gives him his patented constipation face. "How the hell would I know? I've never seen a demon. Wasn't even sure there were any on Earth."

Dean shrugs and picks up his beer. He was just spitballing. 

"Though come to think of it," Sam says, and Dean grins – he's already working on the solution to something he doesn't even know is really a problem, "it's probably smart to find a way to lock them into their human host until the exorcism is complete."

"Sounds risky," Dean says. "What if binding them kills the human or something?"

Sam shakes his head. "I meant more like a containment field – maybe a symbol somewhere that means they can't wander off while you're trying to exorcise them. Bobby had a couple of devil's traps – I'm betting those would work."

Sam sits back on the couch, staring stupidly at the ceiling, probably working out the exorcism in his head, and Dean watches David Caruso chew scenery, thinking about demons and exorcisms, and if Dad is being safe.

"Gonna hit the hay," Sam says after a while, and Dean nods, still zoning out. 

When he looks at the clock on the DVD player, it says 2:39am. "No Dave? 

"I told him I'd be doing research," Sam says. "No use coming over to watch me read."

"Hm," Dean answers. He knows that firsthand.

"No Shannon?" Sam asks, smiling at Dean like he thinks he knows something.

"She's got another friend in town," Dean says. 

"Kicked to the curb already," Sam teases, and Dean smiles and nods, because Sam doesn't know anything.

"Just on hiatus," Dean says. "Apparently Gigi doesn't get to Chicago very often."

Sam shakes his head. "You have got some sixth sense about women. How do you always find them? I always get clingy want-a-boyfriend types."

"Practice makes perfect," Dean says, very carefully not saying that Dave definitely seems like the want-a-boyfriend type.

~~~

_"This is John Winchester. If this is an emergency, please leave a message. If you are calling about 11-2-83, page me with your coordinates."_

"Hey Dad. Sam said you were working on a demon case. Just wanted to know if you needed any help. Give me a call, I can be wherever you are in less than twenty-four hours."

~~~

Dean leaves three more messages for Dad before landing a case of his own in West Virginia. He's almost all the way off his nocturnal schedule, and he waits for Sam to get home from class before he takes off. Dave lets himself in just before dinnertime, carrying something that smells like garlic and heaven.

"Oh," he says, blinking at Dean. "I hadn't expected you to still be here."

Dean gives him a toothy grin, and Dave looks chagrined. "Sorry, I just meant I thought you'd be on the road. You don't usually stay a whole week."

He doesn't, and it's a little weird that Dave knows that. He's only known them for a couple of months. "Well, don't worry about me, I was just heading out. Wanted to say goodbye to Sammy first, but I'll clear out. Obviously you two have plans."

"No," Dave begs, "I'm sorry – I didn't mean it like that. And this is a surprise. It's been a while and I didn't want to get another excuse about researching, so I brought pasta from Gino's. There's plenty – you can join us."

Dean smiles. He likes Dave. Dave makes an effort. "Nah," he says. "I gotta get going. You two kids have fun. Let Sam know I'll be in West Virginia."

"Of course," Dave says. "You can stay, Dean. Please stay. I don't want Sam to think I chased you off."

It's cute – and Dean likes this guy, so he's willing to work with him a bit for Sam's sake. "Don't worry," he says, "Sam'll understand. Tell him I have a case."

"All right," Dave says, though he sounds dubious. "But do you want some garlic bread for the road?"

Dean grins. Dave is definitely growing on him.

~~~

Dave goes from casual visits to nearly-moved-in over the next few weeks, and Dean finds he doesn't mind. He's clearly head over heels for Sam, which wins him a lot of points in Dean's book, and it's nice to have someone to keep an eye on Sam when he's not around, too.

Sometimes, even, when Dean _is_ there. More often than not, Sam's out when Dean comes home. It's weird; he used to always be home when Dean got there, like he had some kind of sixth sense about it. Now he's at school or the library, getting more books to research that damn demon. 

And that scares him, too – it's been weeks, and Dad won't call him back. Not even a voicemail to say, "I've got this, don't worry about it," which is what usually happens when Dean volunteers to help. Dean doesn't like it.

He visits Shannon, when she's available, and checks out more of the neighborhood around their house. It's fine; weird to have a mental map of somewhere stationary, not tied to the diners he likes best or motels with the best cable, but a house. A home.

"Hey, have you seen the old-fashioned arcade over on Drexel?" Dean asks Sam one morning as he hands over the coffee he'd specifically brewed to bring Sam downstairs. 

Sam looks at him dolefully for a minute, still waking up. "No."

"Looks cool," Dean says. "We should go. I'll spot you a roll of quarters, like I always used to."

"I don't have time," Sam says. "I have class and office hours until six, and then I have to –"

"Research for Dad's demon thing," Dean says. At least Sam looks a little chagrined at that.

"It's a _demon_ , Dean. You don't want Dad going off half-cocked, do you?"

Of course that's not what Dean wants. But he'd like to hear from that from Dad, first of all, and he'd like Sam to share more, too. "What are you researching for him?" he asks.

"Still working on that exorcism," Sam mumbles, but it's a lie. Dean doesn't know how he knows, just that his gut tells him that there's no way it would take Sam more than a month to write something like that. 

"Really?" Dean goads. "Would've thought that'd only take you a day or two."

Sam shrugs, the insult rolling off him the way Dean's barbs often do when he's coiled in, protecting himself. "I'm writing some variations. Trying to find ways to keep the demon from leaving the body before the exorcism is finished."

Part of that is true, though Dean can't figure out which part. He used to be able to read Sam like a book, and suddenly it's like Sam has all the closed off spaces, smooth walls with no entry points, going up and up and Dean can't see over them. Where did his Sammy go?

"Maybe this weekend," Dean says, because at least without class, Sam doesn't have an excuse for all day long.

"I promised Dave I'd hit the museum with him this weekend," Sam says, and while it's not exactly a lie, there's definitely something in it that's not truthful.

Dean nods. "Sure."

"You could bring Shannon along," Sam teases, a genuine smile on his face that makes Dean breathe a little easier. "Make it a double date."

"Ha ha," Dean says, but it reminds him to text Shannon to see if she's available. By the time he turns around, Sam's gone, back upstairs with his coffee, getting ready for the day.

He grabs the papers as he sits down with his coffee, and finds himself a case in Wilmer, Minnesota. Werewolves, probably, and in the middle of a full moon cycle. He texts Shannon his apology for getting her hopes up and winds his way upstairs to pack his duffel. He knocks on Sam's door gently, not sure if Dave might still be asleep. 

Dave answers, groggy, and Dean apologizes again. "He's in the shower," Dave says, and Dean can hear the water running, now that the bedroom door is open.

"Yeah, I caught a case – I have to run. Tell him I'm going to Minnesota?"

Dave nods and turns to climb back into bed. "Hey, Dave," Dean says, his heart in his throat. He can't believe he's going to do this, but Sam's being weird and he's starting to worry. 

"Yeah?"

"Will you…" God, it sounds so childish. He plows on. His worry about Sam is bigger than his embarrassment. "Will you keep in touch? Text me if anything happens with Sam?"

Dave squints at him, nodding mutely after a minute. That doesn't help; if Dave thinks Dean asking him to stay in touch isn't weird, then he must feel something is off with Sam too. It's just one more thing adding to the churning in his guts, but it's starting to get bad, and Dean doesn't know what to do.

"Thanks," he says, backing out of their room and closing the door behind him.

~~~

_Allentown, Pennsylvania, December 2005_

Dean goes on hunts with a grim determination these days. He takes down a wendigo, a woman in white, a bunch of vengeful spirits, and then Dad sends him on a case that terrifies him. He meets with Jerry, conducts his investigation, and interviews one of the survivors, but when the second plane crashes, and he starts making calls to make sure none of the other survivors are going to fly anytime soon, he can feel himself getting anxious. He has a really bad feeling about this case.

He doesn't even think to call Sam. Their phone calls are awkward these days and it makes him nauseous to do nothing more than bluntly discuss a case over the phone. It's why he's more than a little surprised when he shows up at the airport that Sam is there, plane tickets in hand.

"Why didn't you call for back-up, you moron?" Sam asks, and it's so close to normal that Dean almost hugs him. "You gonna try and take down a demon by yourself?"

Dean shrugs, trying to keep it together and failing miserably. "I know this really great exorcism," he says, and Sam smiles, genuine and goofy, and Dean's heart nearly explodes out of his chest. How he's missed that. 

"You know that the demon's exploiting people who are afraid to fly, right?" 

Dean shrugs. He's never mentioned his fear of flying; he's not even sure how Sam knows, but he's grateful he does. "Good thing I've got my little brother looking out for me."

"Damn straight," Sam laughs, and when they board the plane, he squeezes Dean's shoulder. The relief at having Sammy with him is enough to stave off the terror for a little while.

~~~

After they exorcise the demon and get their feet back on solid ground, Dean's got survivor's high bad enough to suggest a couple of drinks at the local roadhouse to celebrate. Sam's face lights up for half a second, and Dean can almost feel Sam's careless joy, too.

Then Sam shuts down, an eerie blankness to his face as he brings up classes he has to teach and the all-night drive to get back in time, and the world drains of color. Dean forces himself to agree, being as gracious as he can considering he feels like Sam just ripped a hole in his guts.

"Take it easy," Dean says, and Sam gives him a ghost of a smile. 

"You too," he answers, and when he turns away, the way his shoulders hunch in on himself makes Dean's heart ache. He knows this is hurting Sam too. He can't figure out why Sam is shutting him out, though, and Sam is being sneaky enough not to leave any clues where Dean can find them.

~~~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** secretive!Sam,  
>  **Chapter notes: Warning:** major character death (John Winchester).

~~~

_Conway, Arkansas, December 2005_

_"This is John Winchester. If this is an emergency, please leave a message. If you are calling about 11-2-83, page me with your coordinates."_

"Dad, call me back, okay? I'm worried about Sammy and I can't get him to talk to me. I need your help."

~~~

Three voicemails and an obnoxious couple of hours spent calling Dad's cell on repeat later, and Dean's got a pissed off John Winchester on the other end of the line.

_"This had better be good, Dean. I'm on a case."_

"It's about your other son."

There's a pause on the other end of the line that Dean doesn't like much. It sounds an awful lot like Dad knows something Dean doesn't. 

_"What is it, Dean?"_

For a second, Dean can't say anything. Fear rises up and paralyzes him; Sam is working with Dad, and they're purposely keeping him in the dark. "What aren't you telling me?"

 _"Son,"_ Dad starts, and Dean's way beyond being the obedient son; this is his family, and they've shut him out.

"Don't _son_ me," Dean says. "You're working on something with Sam and neither one of you will tell me anything. What the hell is going on?"

 _"Mind your tone,"_ Dad starts, but Dean is up to here with this. Sam's always been a little secretive and Dean's given him space because it's tough to grow up the way they did, and he probably knows too much about Sam anyway. But Dad has never lied to Dean outright before, and this is scary big.

"Don’t tell me you're not working with Sam on something," Dean pushes. "And something dangerous because you know I'd hound you if Sam got hurt on the job and I wasn't there to help. Just tell me what's going on."

_"It's just research, Dean. I need your brother's help with some leads I have on the thing that killed your mother. Nothing new, nothing dangerous."_

Dean's caught. He doesn't believe Dad, not with the way Sammy's been acting, but to call him out based on Sam's behavior is asking for trouble. John Winchester doesn't take kindly to people calling him a liar. 

But maybe he can get something else out of Dad. "Promise me you'll call if anything big comes up? I don't want anything to happen to you guys."

 _"We'll call if we get any leads,"_ Dad says, but it doesn't make Dean feel any better.

~~~

_Toledo, Ohio, January 2006_

Less than a month later, Sam's with him on the road again. It might just be because it's winter break and there are exploding eyeballs, but Dean's not picky. Anything that helps him keep an eye on Sam is of the good.

He's even happier he brought Sam along when he can't charm his way in to see the cadaver and Sam just opens his billfold and plops a wad of twenties in front of the guy. At some point, Dean's going to have to figure out how Sam makes his money.

It's the hat trick when Sam gets the little girl to tell him about Bloody Mary, and damn, Dean misses having Sam on hunts like an ache. 

Then the bottom drops out when Sam comes up with his plan to draw Mary to her mirror, complete with a deep, dark secret he refuses to tell Dean. Dean can taste fear like bile in the back of his mouth, and even though he agrees to let Sam go ahead with his plan, mostly hoping that Sam's secret is some dumb thing that doesn't matter and won't call Mary to her mirror. He also hopes that no one has actually died because of Sam, but they've taken down enough monsters that there's a high likelihood that someone got caught in the crossfire.

The cops that show up are probably the perfect distraction; at least long enough to break the mirror. It turns out he's got a few lethal secrets of his own, though. It's almost funny, he's sure he's got a ton of deaths he should feel guilty for, but he can't even remember them. He just knows his eyes bleed when the bitch steps out of the mirror, and thank god for thinking maybe he could trap her in another mirror, because that bit of quick thinking saves the day.

He tries not to think too much about all the mirrors they smashed, and whether that reflects on how broken their souls are. He does think about whatever fucking secret Sam thinks he's keeping, and he intends to make Sam spill. He's sick of Sam and Dad's cloak and dagger crap. 

"Now that this is over," Dean says, waiting for Sam to look him in the eye before issuing the ultimatum, "I want you to tell me what that secret was."

"Look. You're my brother, and I'd die for you." Sam looks down, smiling, and shakes his head. "But there are some things I need to keep to myself."

Dean doesn't even know how to answer that, so he doesn’t, just settles in for the drive and tries to enjoy the feeling of having someone in the passenger seat for a change.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, April 2006_

"Goddess of discord," Dean says. "Can you believe it?"

Sam shakes his head. He's smiling easy, tipsy from a night out with a bunch of students, spring break for the losers still stuck at school. "I got a good one," Sam says, smiling at Dean with drunken good humor.

When Sam tells him that he painted invisible ink devil's traps underneath every seat in every lecture hall he teaches in, alarm bells go off in Dean's head. He knows Sam's been doing stuff around the house – salt in the paint on the door mouldings, something with rosaries and water filtration – but that is paranoid on a scale Dean can't even imagine. He doesn’t even know how to bring up the fact that if Sam is that concerned, maybe he should tell Dean what the hell he and Dad are working on. 

Before he can mention it, though, Sam's crowing over a girl he caught with that set-up. Dean's blood runs cold. 

"And there she was, trying desperately to get out of her chair," Sam says, shaking his head and laughing. It's a real laugh, Dean can hear how amused Sam is, but he can't feel it, not like he used to. "A few other students noticed and gave her strange looks, but no one stayed behind."

Sam's smile softens a little, and he says, "I've got the exorcism in my voicemail now. That reminds me, I'm going to set that up for you too. Just dial it up and put it on speaker."

Dean nods his head. It's a smart idea, but that's exactly the sort of thing he expects out of Sam. He's all about hunting smarter. The devil's trap thing, though, that's paranoia, not preparedness. 

"So anyway, yeah. Exorcised the demon right there, and the girl it was riding, Meg, was a girl from Massachusetts. I gave her bus fare and sent her home to her little sister." He smiles, a sad but honest one, his dimples showing. "She kinda reminded me of you, actually. So worried about her little sister."

Dean returns Sam's smile as best he can, considering it feels like he's been stabbed in the heart. He can tell Sam doesn't like this either, this strange distance between them that makes everything awkward, but it's not Dean that's lying and keeping his family in the dark.

"Yeah," he says, deciding to push his luck. "I worry about my dumb little brother all the time. Especially when he and my dad get up to something and cut me out."

"Dean," Sam says, and the hurt is plain as day on his face, but Dean still can't feel it. Maybe it's Dean that's broken. Maybe one of those vengeful spirits burned out whatever it is he's always used to tune in to his brother; maybe he's just fucked up or depressed. He doesn't think so, though, because he knows it's bothering Sam, too. He may not be able to feel Sam the same, but he can read him just fine.

Dean just stares, meeting Sam's eyes and challenging him to tell him he's wrong. Sam doesn't lie to him outright and can't control himself very well when he's drunk, so Dean's thinking maybe he'll get a few answers out of him.

"It's just a lead," Sam says. "Dad's trying to get the demon's name."

Dean's not sure he likes where this is going. "Why does he need the name?" 

"Dunno," Sam says, shrugging. "I just know he needs the name, and I'm trying to figure out which demon it might be. There's a million of them, you know. All named stupid demon names."

Another couple of shots show up in front of them and when Dean looks up, Shannon's smiling at him. "Free tonight?" she asks, just as Sam lists dangerously to the side and Dean has to catch him. He's torn; there's probably more information to be gotten out of Sam, but he hates turning Shannon down when she's in the mood.

"Give me an hour or so?" Dean asks.

"Sure," Shannon says. "It'll take that long to close up and cash out."

~~~

Dean frowns down at Sam, flopped on his front and half hanging off the bed. He'd downed his shot and then gone for Dean's, and just like that, he'd gone from talkative drunk to falling down drunk. And now he's far enough gone that Dean doesn't want to leave him alone. He sighs, picks up his cell, and dials Shannon's number.

 _"Dean,"_ Shannon's voice comes over the line. _"You're not standing me up, are you?"_

A smile creeps across Dean's face. He can't help it; Shannon's too smart for the likes of him. "Sorry, darlin'," he says, putting just a little Southern twang in his accent. 

_"I could come to you,"_ Shannon offers, and it takes a second for it to kick in that she wants to come to his place. _His_ place. He has a _place_. 

"Yeah," he says, thinking about the queen bed Sam bought him as a birthday present because Dean bitched long and hard about how lame his Christmas present was. He hadn't even considered that it needed to be inaugurated… he's never thought about bringing a woman home before. 

And there's that word again, _home_ , leaving its uneasy trails in his mind. 

_"Great, text me the address,"_ Shannon says, completely oblivious to the momentous occasion that's happening here, maybe a little for their relationship but mostly for the frame of reference he has for his life. Home has always been Baby, four doors instead of four walls, the road and the chase, Sam and Dad planets in his orbit, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. 

They've both been farther lately, that secret driving a wedge between them, but even so, he has a home. A home with Sammy, a place he belongs, a place he feels safe, a place to put his stuff and bring women to when he wants to have sex. 

It scares the shit out of him.

 _"Dean?"_ Shannon asks softly, and there's a question in her voice. Maybe she didn't miss it after all; Shannon's always been sharp. _"We can skip it, if you want. You take care of Sam."_

"No," Dean says, interrupting her before she gets the chance to talk herself out of it. "No, come on over. It's fine." He laughs, hoping Shannon doesn't notice the shake in it. "Just a little preoccupied with Sam. Maybe go easy on me tonight."

 _"Mmm,"_ Shannon hums, and he knows that sound, it's the sound of her deciding what she wants to do to him. _"I've got just the thing."_

"Can't wait," Dean says, hanging up and texting her the address before he takes a look around and panics. His place is a mess.

~~~

Shannon spends the night.

Dean makes them all breakfast, and Sam smiles at her when he comes down at the smell of bacon and eggs. It's a rueful smile, maybe a little pissed off that she was the one that pushed him over the edge into hangover territory, but still, Dean can tell Sam's happy she's here. That maybe she'll become a fixture, something like Dave.

Dave comes down a few minutes later, slower to wake up than Sam for once, and shuffles blearily into the kitchen, grabbing the nearest chair and sitting down heavily. Sam passes him his mug and Dave takes a deep drink. 

They talk around the breakfast table, a nice, sturdy one that Sam bought sometime in the last few months, and it's weird and kind of pleasant. Dave and Shannon get along great, and Sam keeps giving Dean secretive grins over the tops of their heads. 

"So Sam," Shannon says, leaning back in her chair with her freshly-filled mug, "what is it you do, anyway?"

Sam looks down at the table, shy about talking about himself, a lifetime of not wanting to be memorable. "I'm a grad student at the university."

"Oh, come on," Shannon says, laughing, and Sam's head snaps up, his eyes wary. "And you own a house? Really? Or did your big brother buy it for you?" She raises an eyebrow at Dean. "You've never said what it is you do."

Dean clears his throat, stalling for time because this is the one place he doesn't want to tread, not with Shannon and especially not with Dave here. Sam comes to the rescue. "Dean's a consultant," he says. "He travels a lot."

"Oooh," Shannon says, turning to him. "Sounds exciting. What do you consult on?"

"Security," Sam answers, and Shannon looks back at him, surprised. Dean can't help a surprised look either – clearly Sam has thought this through and has a firm cover in place for Dean. Maybe this is what he's told Dave. "Dean can look at the security of any building and find its weak points."

"What, like how a burglar would break in?" Shannon asks, staring at Sam, enthralled. 

"For starters," Sam says, nodding. "Electronic surveillance weaknesses, analysis of floor plans, you name it. He's done it all."

Shannon raises an eyebrow. "Sound like you know your fair share about this, too," she says, and he shrugs. 

"I tag along sometimes."

Dean can't help a laugh. _This_ is what Sam's been doing to make his money? How the hell did he get into this? He raises his eyebrows at Sam and gives him a shit-eating grin. Sam flicks a glance his way, looking almost sheepish, and then turns back to Shannon. 

"That's so cool," Shannon says, turning back to him. "Do you ever go anywhere exciting?"

When Dean glances up at Sam, he shakes his head minutely, so Dean says, "Nah, not really. Mostly small town banks and private companies. Nothing too interesting."

"And Dean's afraid of flying," Sam adds, which Dean could just murder him for, "so he drives everywhere in that antique of his."

It almost sounds like an insult, but he knows Sam would never insult Baby, so he glares a warning at Sam but lets it slide.

"Well, I have to get out of here," Dave says. "I'm already running late for work. My boss likes to give me grief whenever I'm late because of Sam, and I don't want to give him any more ammunition." He leans in to give Sam a kiss, probably meant to be something short and sweet, but Sam brings a hand up to Dave's neck and holds him in place for a long minute. 

Shannon chuckles and leans into Dean. "I've got a few more hours before I have to be in," she says in an undertone. "Want to get some more use out of that party favor I brought?"

~~~

"So," Dean says later that evening when Sam gets back from his classes. "You consult on security? Really?"

Sam shrugs. "Kind of fell into it, actually."

"Do tell," Dean says, handing over a beer.

Sam cracks it and takes a seat on the couch, taking a long swallow and sighing before answering. "I took care of a poltergeist that was haunting a bank," Sam says. "It wasn't anything tricky, but I had to get in at night without raising any alarms, which was fine, except the poltergeist tripped them before I could stop it. Police caught me, and the bank manager came in and vouched for me as an expert, testing their security systems."

"Huh," Dean says. 

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling down into his beer before taking another drink. "It was a surprise to get a call from another bank manager asking me to check out his security, saying Mr. Devoy recommended me. The contract was for $5,000 and expenses for a three-day weekend."

Dean whistles. "That's not nothing."

"It got higher and higher the more I did it. By the time places in Vegas were calling, I was getting $15,000 and free hotel rooms and meals. I only do it maybe four or five times a year anymore, but that's all I need."

Dean turns to stare at Sam. "So you bought this house free and clear. Just how much money do you have stashed away?"

Sam shrugs. "Enough to get you or Dad out of trouble." He picks at the seam of his jeans. "I didn't know how to bring it up, so when I got you your new credit cards, I just kept paying them off so you wouldn't reach the limit."

Dean frowns. It's been months on this card – a platinum one that Sam'd told him had some crazy limit on it. He thought Sam had just worked some magic with Kurt Devaney's credit, but he'd actually just been paying for Dean's stuff – and for years before that, too, probably. He wonders if he's done the same with Dad.

Sam'd been too embarrassed to let Dean know he was rich, and he knew that Dean's pride would never let him take money. 

"So, you can have this," Sam says, taking his wallet out of his pocket and handing Dean a credit card with Dean Winchester stamped across the bottom, "but you shouldn't use it on a case."

Dean knows that, of course he does, you can't leave any kind of trail when you're working on a case, but the card is an Amex, blue and shiny and Dean can't quite wrap his head around this. "I can't take this," he says, staring down at the card in his hand.

"Well," Sam says, getting up from the couch, "I've been using it all over town, building your credit history. So even if you don't, you're still a real person, with a real name, a real home, and a credit history that looks like Joe Normal."

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. Sam's been building the foundation for Dean to have a normal life if he wants to. He doesn't, he loves hunting for the most part, but hearing Sam say that he has a home, that he has a name, one that isn't just recognized by people who can never tell anyone what he's done, but one that's recognized by the government, the credit agencies, humanity at large… it's all too much.

"What are you working on?" Dean asks. 

Sam freezes. Dean knows it's a shit thing to do, to turn around after such a monumental blessing and ask Sam for more – but he needs this even more than what Sam's given him, the gift of a future, a light at the end of the tunnel. It's not much of a future if Sam won't be there to share it with him.

"Sammy?" 

"Don't, Dean," Sam says, staring down at the floor. "Don't make me."

"Don't make you what?" Dean asks. "Choose? Is that it? It's either me or Dad?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm trying to keep you out of harm's way. I don't want to push you away to do it, but I will if I have to."

The cold feeling that comes over Dean terrifies him. Sam's right in front of him, but Dean can't feel a thing coming from him, not anger or sadness or fear, nothing. He can see conflict written on Sam's face, the deep sadness, but he can't feel it, can't be sure it's not for show. It scares the shit out of him. 

"It's my job to protect you, remember?" Dean says, and it's not a joke, though he does his level best to make it sound like one. "You're my little brother. I can't just stand by and watch you throw yourself at something like this and not help."

Sam shakes his head. "It's not about you, Dean," Sam says. "You can't do anything to help."

"Bullshit!" Dean cries, standing up and grabbing Sam's arms, shaking him a little. "We're supposed to be a team, we're supposed to figure this stuff out together!"

Sam shakes his head. "Not this one, Dean. This one is on me." He pulls away from Dean, taking a step back, yanking his right arm out of Dean's grip and prying Dean's fingers off his left arm. "I need to take care of this, and I wouldn't be able to stand it if you got hurt."

Sam backs away, grabbing his coat and heading toward the door. 

"Sammy," Dean barks, trying for his best drill sergeant voice. "Get back here."

"I can't, Dean," Sam says, his back to Dean and head down. He takes a breath like he's going to say more, and then just shakes his head and stalks out the door.

After that, if Dean's home, Sam's gone. Dave will occasionally be around, but Sam won't come home if Dean's there. He tries to trick Sam, parking the car miles away and hiding in his room, so he can't be seen from the windows, but Sam still seems to know.

He spends two weeks waiting for Sam to come home. He has no idea where Sam is staying, and apparently neither does Dave, because he stops by every couple of days, worried and a little annoyed.

Dean assures him Sam's okay, that he's just being stupid, and he's sorry that Sam's taking out his frustration with Dean out on Dave. Dave smiles at that and they order in ridiculously expensive sushi and watch pay per view for a couple of hours. He knows it won't even make a dent in Sam's cash, but it feels good and it gets Dave on his side, so when he finds a hunt in Texas a week later, Dave agrees to text him when Sam gets back.

He's not even fifty miles out of town when he gets a text from Dave. _Sam's home_ is all it says, but it loosens the knot in Dean's chest a little, so he stomps on the gas and turns up the radio.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, July, 2006_

The more distant Sam becomes, the more Dean relies on Dave for information. Dave even texts him on the road sometimes, things like _Does Sam always spend this much time reading about the occult?_ and _I think he's building an altar to Satan in the basement, ha ha_. It isn't until the texts turn more serious, _Will he get mad if I remind him to eat?_ that Dean gets worried, and when he gets _He's not sleeping and he won't talk to me_ , he politely exits from the interview with a victim's grandmother.

Sam's on a hunt. Something big, with a civilian in the house. He calls up Bobby to put another hunter on his own case and hauls ass back to Chicago. When he gets there, Dave is packing. "Hey Dean," he says, not even looking up from the DVDs he's shuffling into a cardboard box. "Sam's gone."

Dean stops in his tracks. "What do you mean, Sam's gone?"

Dave shrugs and puts _My Own Private Idaho_ into the box. "He left. Said goodbye like an apology and walked out the door."

Dean's blood runs cold, and then anger comes up in its place. He grabs Dave's shoulders and backs him up against the wall. "Where did he go?"

"How the hell should I know?" Dave shouts, straining against Dean's hands on his arms. "You think he tells me anything? Why do you think I'm packing up my stuff?"

Dean lets go of Dave, putting his hands up in apology. This isn't Dave's fault. He sighs and wipes a hand down his face. "Did you see anything? Anything that'll help me track him down?"

"I don't know why you care. He's been treating you like crap, too, you know. Don't think I didn't notice."

Dean turns a stone cold look on Dave. "He's my brother. It's not about being there when things are easy."

Dave's eyes get big, and then narrow dangerously. He gives Dean a shove. "Fuck you, Dean. You're not here with him when he has nightmares every time he closes his eyes, or when he gets so pissed at me for trying to make him eat that he throws plates of food at the wall. You're not the only person who cares about him!" Dave turns around and runs a hand through his hair. 

Dean feels for the guy, he understands the emotional rollercoaster of what loving Sam is like, but mostly he's pissed that Dave didn't tell him about the nightmares. That's a big deal and Dean didn't even have a clue. 

"I hung in as long as I could," Dave says, picking up the box of stuff. "I know Sam's just going through something, but he won't let me in, and I can't live like this, no matter how great I know Sam is most of the time."

Dean throws his hands up. He doesn't blame Dave. This is what their life is like, and they're always going to have these sorts of episodes. It's the reason Dean's never bothered to try having something long term with a woman. "Okay," he says, trying for understanding. "Well, if you think of anything, drop a dime." 

"I will," Dave says. "And when you guys get back, text me to let me know he's safe? But don't tell him." 

Dean gives him a rueful smile. He knows exactly how Dave's feeling, and he knows it's not fair to judge the guy based on how their family works, but he's running away, and that is just not an option for a Winchester. "I will. He'll be okay, things are just like this for us sometimes."

Dave shakes his head and picks up the box. "That sucks. I hope you guys can settle down at some point, because you don't deserve this. Goodbye, Dean."

"Bye, Dave. Good luck."

Dave smiles at him ruefully. "Thanks. Oh – and he did all his research in the library. If there's anything to find, it'll be in there."

~~~

The library is a disaster area. There are books haphazardly piled everywhere, not nicely organized the way Sam usually prefers. There's at least two dozen on the table, stacked in teetering piles, or open to random pages. There's a hole in the middle of those, like Sam took the two or three books he'd really been working on with him.

There's a notepad on the table, too, and Dean's not entirely sure it's luck when he gets a rubbing of an address in Minnesota, outside Duluth. He pockets the whole pad and takes off at a run for the Impala, coming back to make sure the place is secured because he hasn't been able to get in the habit of locking the door when he leaves.

~~~

_Rockford, Illinois, July 2006_

He hasn't even gotten out of Illinois when he gets the phone call. 

He should be thrilled to see Sam's number come up on his phone, but there's dread creeping up his chest and he watches the phone vibrate on the dash for two rings, three, his heart in his throat. "No," he whispers, picking up the phone and staring at it. 

He lets it goes to voicemail. If it's nothing important, Sam will leave a message. 

Two seconds later, Sam is calling again, and now he has to pull over because he can't see the road through the tears in his eyes.

He hits the send button but he doesn't speak. He just breathes, waits for Sam.

_"Dean?"_

He nods, swallowing hard. 

_"Dean, I'm sorry."_

No. _No no no no –_

 _"Dad killed it. The thing that killed Mom is dead, Dean."_

A sob escapes Dean, oh no, no, this isn't happening.

_"But it took Dad with it."_

The phone falls out of Dean's hand and lands on the floor. 

_"Dean?"_

Sam's voice sounds far away, like he's using tin cups and string, and Dean can feel Sam, somehow, the pain in his chest has two distinct parts to it, his own disbelief and sorrow and Sam's. He knows his brother's guilt like the back of his hand, but he can't offer anything to Sam, not right now. If he'd been there – if he'd had Dad's back…

Why didn't Dad tell _him_? Why Sam, why not both of them, or why not another hunter, at least? 

_"Dean, I'm…_ There's a heavy, wet breath, still tinny, like Sam is drowning in liquid aluminum. _"I took care of his body. I… I couldn't wait for you."_

"No," Dean says, anger blazing through the sorrow, making him reach down to pick up the phone. "No, Sammy, I have to see him."

Dean can feel the twinge of guilt over the line. 

_"There's nothing left, Dean. I have his ashes. I thought we could put them in the plot next to Mom's headstone."_

Dean hangs up. He can still feel Sam's guilt and sadness, it's like it's pouring in over the airwaves or something, the heartsickness that both mirrors and deepens his own. He doesn't know what to do. Part of him wants to go to Minnesota, look around and maybe do a little investigating of his own. The rest of him wants to go to sleep and not wake up for a week. 

In the end, he knows Sam will have scrubbed everything clean in Duluth. There's no point in going there. He wipes his eyes and grabs the phone, texting Dave. _Sam's fine, be back home in a day, maybe._ He doesn't think he'll hear back from Dave, but he promised.

Then he pulls a u-turn and heads back to Chicago.

~~~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** grief, secrets  
>  **Chapter notes:** For triggery subjects, this chapter deals with grieving and Dean trying to get Sam to talk about his secrets.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, July 2006_

It says a lot that Dean didn't wake up when Sam got home. Not when Sam slammed through the front door or called his name from the downstairs hallway or when the door to his room creaked open. 

No, he hadn't woken up until Sam curled up next to him on the bed, his forehead resting against Dean's side, his gangly arms and legs tucked in tight. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them moves. Dean falls back asleep in two minutes, but before he drops off, he hears Sam whisper, "I'm sorry, Dean," and something inside him shatters.

~~~

The next few days have them lying around like invalids. They don't speak to each other, and they only get out of bed to go to the bathroom or when they get too hungry to ignore their stomachs growling. The first time Dean calls for pizza, but he makes Sam answer the door. The second time Sam brings a box of cereal, a jug of milk, and two bowls up to the bed.

The third time, Dean sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the pair of jeans he threw in the corner when he got home two or three days ago. He knows they have to leave the house. Sam's probably already missed important school stuff, but he hasn't called anybody since he got home, and Dean doesn't have it in him to care.

He stands up, grabbing the jeans and putting them on. That's the high accomplishment of the last half a week, and he's feeling pretty fucking proud of himself when he pulls a clean shirt out of his dresser. "Let's go to breakfast, Sammy."

When he turns back to his bed, Sam's still curled up in a tight little ball, but his eyes are on Dean. He blinks slowly and shakes his head minutely from side to side.

"Okay," Dean says, trying to be a good big brother, but he's screaming inside. He has so much anger sitting inside him, and nowhere to go with it. He can't lay that on Sam, as much as he really, _really_ wants to, and there's no point on laying it on Dad, though he can't exactly help that. 

He sighs and heads out, walking the three blocks to their favorite diner and getting a couple of greasy breakfasts in styrofoam containers. It's weird, seeing life outside. Everything moves so fast. 

A dog comes running at him from one of the yards he walks past, barking and growling. He drops the breakfasts and puts his arms up in self-defense. The food spills all over the sidewalk and the dog goes straight for it, snatching up two of Dean's sausages and grinning toothily around them. Dean snaps, yelling and kicking at the dog, and when he can't actually coordinate enough to connect with the dog, he goes down to one knee and throws a wild punch, catching it in the ribs. He punches the sidewalk, too, because punching things feels pretty damn good, but he thinks killing a dog, even an annoying asshole dog like this one, is probably going to raise a few eyebrows. So the sidewalk it is, the scrape of his skin on the cement waking up something inside him that makes him want to howl.

He stops punching when the pain finally registers, and he brings his hand up to his face to examine it. He wipes the moisture off his face with his good hand, and knows he broke a finger, maybe two, but he can't tell under all the blood. He takes a couple of the napkins from the diner and does his best to wrap up his hand, and he goes back to get two more breakfasts. Kelly looks nervously at his hand but doesn't say anything, just gives him two new containers and takes his cash without any fuss. He really likes this diner.

When he finally makes it back to the house, Sam's fast asleep, sprawled across half of Dean's bed. It's the first time in days that Dean's seen him in any position outside curled up into a tight ball, trying to disappear. He takes the food back down to the kitchen and eats sitting at the kitchen table. When he finishes his, he eats Sam's, too, meanly thinking it's exactly what Sam deserves for not getting out of bed.

After he eats, he washes his hand, debriding the skin before setting and splinting the bones of his ring and pinky fingers. Not the worst breaks he's ever had, and the pain is far away. It can't touch him.

There's a certain hollow feeling to functioning like this. He feels like maybe he could get stuff done, simple stuff that doesn't require anything too complex from him. He goes out to Baby and grabs his duffel, stopping by Sam's little Prius and seeing if he left anything in there. There's two duffels and a couple of boxes. He grabs the duffels and leaves the boxes for later. He just wants to do laundry.

For the next couple of hours he does laundry, sitting on the couch while he listens for the timer that tells him his cycle is done, folding everything while it's still warm from the dryer. It's weirdly comforting. He puts his clothes in one basket and Sam's in another and leaves Dad's on the coffee table. He stares at the pile for a long time, trying to come to some sort of decision about it, but in the end it wears him out, so he takes the baskets upstairs and crawls into Sam's bed, comforted by the smell of Sam on the pillowcase.

~~~

_Lawrence, Kansas, August 2006_

Sam tries to say something. Dean's not listening, not at all, but he doesn't interrupt. If Sam needs words, he'll let Sam have them. 

They're the only people at the gravesite. They hadn't advertised it; there are probably plenty of people that still remember Dad, but he's been gone from their lives a long time. His sons are the ones that need closure, not people from a life that ended when his wife burned on the ceiling.

There's nothing more than a tombstone, just like their mother. Dean couldn't deal with putting Dad in the ground. Dad should be scattered, a handful of ash at a time when he's on the road. He'd done the first on the trip from Chicago to Kansas, got a scoop of ashes and stuck his hand out the window, letting the ash fall from his fist as he drove. Sam'd cried then, silently and facing the window, and Dean'd politely not mentioned it. 

His anger with Sam has faded. He knows he was pissed, he knows he has a right to be pissed, but Sam's open to him in a way he hasn't been in months, almost a year, and Dean can feel the sorrow and guilt he's carrying. Dean's anger evaporates in the face of it. He can't add to it; Sam's carrying way more than he should be already.

"I did some research on warding," Sam says on the trip home, sounding innocent enough.

"Yeah?" Dean says, getting ready to settle in for some boring explanation of pentagrams and salt-water rituals.

"Yeah," Sam says. "And I found out if you're wearing a pentacle, you can't get possessed by a demon."

"That right?" Dean asks. He's perfected the art of sounding interested and keeping Sammy talking so he doesn't have to actually offer anything to the conversation.

"Mmm hmm," Sam says. "So I thought we might get tattoos. Seems like a good idea in our business."

Dean almost snaps at Sam. _Our_ business. Sam's a damn schoolteacher, not a hunter.

"I'm a hunter too, Dean," Sam says, like he heard exactly what Dean was thinking. "I've worked plenty of cases. With Dad, with you, _and_ by myself."

That terrifies Dean. He doesn't like the idea of Sam hunting on his own. He knows too well how easy it is for things to go sideways if you're by yourself.

"I am just as capable as you are, Dean," Sam says. "I'm not a kid anymore. I have four exorcisms memorized in three languages. I know sixteen different protection and location spells off the top of my head. I know how to hunt."

Dean just grunts and keeps driving. 

"So, pentacle tattoos?" Sam pushes, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Fine, but I get to design them."

~~~

In the end, they go with a pentacle design Sam found, but is pretty much what Dean would've drawn anyway, a star in a circle with flames around it. Sam tells him that it's supposed to represent the sun, which doesn't make any sense – demons don't care about sunlight – but Dean doesn't feel like bickering. It's too nice to have Sam freely offering information.

Sam talks like he hasn't had anyone to talk to in months – which, when Dean thinks about it, is probably true. He couldn't have told Dave any of this, and he certainly wasn't telling Dean, and Dad wouldn't have stayed on the phone long enough to listen to it all. 

Dean can feel the ache in his chest as he thinks of Dad, but it's a happy sort of sad. He thinks Dad would've approved of anti-possession tattoos. There are probably other things they should carry around on their skin, protection spells and healing sigils. This is just the beginning.

Sam's hand is clenching and unclenching on the arm of the chair; they decided to take turns with the same artist and Sam wanted to go first. It'd made him seem so young, wanting to prove to Dean he could do it, that he was a big boy. 

Dean smiles down at him, proud even though Sam's twenty-two and not twelve. He's just grateful to have Sammy back, to have all the parts of him that Sam'd systematically shut Dean out of. He's going to need an explanation, but it can wait. Dean's not going to spoil this just yet.

When it's his turn to sit in the chair, Sam keeps talking, a steady stream of information – including the fact that he had the tattoo artist include some of Dad's ashes in the ink. It's appropriate and Dean thinks Dad would've approved, but it turns things somber for a while and the room gets quiet around the buzzing of the tattoo pen against his skin.

The tattoo artist is a small, dark-haired woman, the kind Sam usually favors, and Dean debates for a long while if he wants to screw over Sam's chances for a hookup before he starts talking about a case. Sam's never been one to rebound quickly, anyway, and as he starts telling Sam about the crazy sisters who were just messing around with an ancient spell they found on the internet, he can feel the way Sam gives him his undivided attention. Turns out Dean hasn't had anyone to talk to in a while, either.

~~~

The tattoos lead directly to a dive bar where they start drinking, and a bottle to take back to the motel where they finish drinking. The job leads a lot of hunters to drink, and Dean is no slouch at holding his liquor, but he's always been careful not to drown himself in the bottle. He knew Dad drank, and drank a lot when he wasn't working on a case or something else to distract him, so Dean tries to be careful.

Tonight is not the night for careful, though. He's been meaning to get roaring drunk since Dad died but the timing just wasn't right until now. He would've preferred to be alone for this, but having Sam with him means he can't get really stupid about it. It only takes one beer at the bar to know he doesn't want to be around people – Sam, yes; people, no – so he buys a bottle and drives them back to the motel. 

He's thrown back a decade or so when they walk in the door, to Sam with him and Dad on the road, the three of them living in rooms just like this for most of Dean's life. There's something hauntingly familiar about it, though it feels distant now, because home doesn't mean the Impala anymore, or wherever Dad and Sam are; home is in Chicago and has his bed and his closet and a mug with _World's Best Brother_ on it that Sam got as a joke and they fight over every time they make coffee.

But these motels were home most of his life, and he misses the part of it that meant Sam was with him all the time. He unscrews the cap on the Jack and takes a long swallow. How he can still miss Sam even when he's in the same room is confusing.

Sam takes the bottle from him and takes a swig, swallowing a couple of times while it's tipped up. After that, it's a contest because there's no way Dean's going to be the last one sober. They don't bother with drinking games. They have a few, back from long days in front of the TV, but they're not really doing this for fun. Dean, at least, just wants to get ripped enough to pass out. Consciousness is overrated.

The thing with getting drunk is that once it starts happening, you forget all the things you told yourself going in, and stuff starts happening that you didn't intend. Things like being halfway through the bottle – safely into drunk enough he could fall off the couch if he tried to stand up – and Sam starting to talk. 

"I missed you too," Sam says, words smushed together and a little slurred. Dean's heart stops when he hears them, though, because he honestly couldn't be sure. He thought Sam'd probably missed him, but it was been hard to tell when Sam was doing everything in his power to shut Dean out.

Sam's smart, too. He could tell where this was headed – definitely blackout territory – and he'd waited until Dean was already so drunk he probably wouldn't remember any of it. "Fuck you," Dean says, though it's less authoritative than he wants. It almost sounds fond.

"I did miss you, Dean, you don't even know how much."

"No, I don't know, do I?" 

It's mean. Dean's a mean drunk sometimes, and Sam brings it out in him more often than not. Still, it's not like Sam doesn't deserve it. He doesn't care what Dad'd ordered, Sam should've told him, should've let him in on what was going on.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "It hurt me, too."

Dean can feel his eyes sting, and he tips his head back, looking up at the ceiling – that's decided to spin. "I don't like it when you're hurt," he says, because he doesn't, and he remembers how painful this was, and he should be mad that Sammy hurt both of them like this, but that's not the part he cares about right now. "And I don't like it when you disappear like that. It was like living with a ghost."

A couple more swallows keep his stupid mouth from saying more stupid things, and Dean keeps staring at the ceiling. If he turns his head sideways, the spinning changes direction.

"I know," Sam says. "You have to know I didn't want to."

"No, Sam, I don't know," Dean says, and ahhhhh – there's that anger again. It's delicious. Spicy. "You could've not… done… it."

Dean can't quite follow what he just said, he thinks he got it right, but Sam's stupid and besides, the ceiling is getting closer.

"I didn't think you'd miss it," Sam says. "I didn't think you knew it was there."

Dean forces his gaze away from the ceiling to look at his brother. He can't quite make sense of what Sam said, and there's a part of him that really, really wants to. "I know when you're there. And when you _look_ like you're there, but you're not."

It'd been like some part of Sam was locked away. Isn't that a selkie thing, where some part of them has to be locked away so they don't go back to the ocean? Was there a part of Sam locked away somewhere to keep him from coming home to Dean?

"Where'd you put it?" he asks. Sam's confused bitchfaces are even funnier when Dean's drunk. He points and laughs, and takes another swallow of whiskey. 

"Where did I put _what_ , Dean?"

"Your pelt," Dean says, proud that he remembered that. "That kept you away from me."

Sam's face smoothes out but now he looks sad, like Dean said something mean. Dean's not above saying something mean, but he didn't do it on purpose this time, and he didn't want to make Sam sad. He takes another drink, holding onto the bottle.

"You're talking selkies," Sam says. "And you think you're the ocean." 

Dean can't quite follow that, so he stops trying. "Don't cry, Sammy." When had Sam started crying? Why are there tears? He closes his eyes so he can't see them.

" _You're_ crying, dumbass," Sam says, and he feels Sam's hand on his face, wiping his cheek. "And pretty sure I'm the one keeping your pelt, not the other way around."

That makes no sense. He opens his mouth to say so, but he finds that the words are missing. Sammy is home, that's right, Sammy's the ocean, and Dean is only home when he's there, that's why he keeps coming back, but then Sammy left and Dean was drowning in open air, no, not drowning, what is it? Asphyxiating.

That's entirely too big a word to get out, though, so Dean just says, "Home. Then I got lost."

"Okay, that's enough for you," Sam says, trying to grab the bottle away from Dean. Sam has always been so grabby.

"Mine," Dean says, hugging it to his chest. "Get your own."

"We're sharing," Sam says, prying Dean's fingers off way too easy. He gives up and lets his head fall back again, waiting for the ceiling to start spinning again.

Then the ceiling turns into the ocean, and he can see himself in the middle of it, surrounded, happy. But then it recedes and he's left chasing it, but it's just gone and he doesn't know how to get it back. "You're my whole world, Sammy," Dean says, closing his eyes against the vision of him lost in a desert. "When you're gone, I don't exist."

Behind his eyelids, Dean can see himself, not a selkie but a merman, swimming in an endless ocean, one that welcomes him, surrounds him, nourishes him. His dreams come swiftly along the waves of the sea, warmth and safety and _home_.

~~~

Dean wakes up with water on his mind but a desert in his mouth. Last night is fuzzy in exactly the way he was hoping for, his crystal clear memories of the tattoos sliding into vague memories of drinking and Sam and then dreams, lots of strange dreams about water.

They fell asleep on the couch and Sam's crashed out next to him, head tipped back and snoring softly. Dean feels better than he has in months. There's a lightness in his chest. He gets up from the couch carefully, leaving Sam to sleep, and goes out for coffee and breakfast sandwiches so they can hit the road. He can't wait to get home.

~~~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags/characters:** Jo Harvelle, Ellen Harvelle, Bobby Singer, boyking!Sam  
>  **Chapter notes:** For triggery subjects, this chapter deals with Dean investigating Sam's secrets and discovering some of the yellow-eyed demon's plans. New minor characters introduced are Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Andy Gallagher, and Scott Carey.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, August 2006_

Shannon buys him a drink when they get back from Lawrence and invites herself and her strap-on over afterward. Dean doesn't refuse, and he certainly doesn't complain.

~~~

The next morning, Dean cooks them breakfast, making enough for Sam because he knows Sam'll make his way down when he smells bacon. He does, smiling at Shannon and pouring juice for all of them. When Dean turns his nose up at his, Sam reaches across the table and finishes it off in two swallows.

"So, how long are you in town for?" Shannon asks. Dean looks wildly around the room, eyes settling on Sam, whose shoulders have climbed somewhere up around his ears.

"A little while," Dean says. "I'm thinking of taking some time off." 

The look of gratitude on Sam's face is nothing compared to what Dean feels, some weird sympathetic vibe he's got going with Sammy, everything he feels comes through loud and clear to Dean. It makes his heart ache a little, to know Sam missed him too, all those months of uncomfortable silences through whatever the hell it was with that demon, but he's still pissed at being cut out. He mostly blames Dad on that front, but it's a conversation they need to have, and things have been so good with Sam he's been unwilling to bring it up.

"Great," Shannon says. "So I'll be seeing more of you over the next few weeks?"

Sam looks down at the table and grins, a little embarrassed and obviously happy for Dean. "Course," Dean says, giving her his most winning smile. "And we've got to find someone for my brother to hook up with." 

Sam's smile drops and Shannon gives him a shake of her head. _Too soon._ But Dean had really liked Dave. He'd liked someone looking out for Sam when he wasn't around, someone who took care of him and wanted the best for him. He just wants someone in Sam's life that can take care of him when Dean's not around to do it.

"Well," Shannon says, stacking their plates and taking them over to the sink, "I think it's time for me to mosey. Give me a call, Winchester."

Dean grins, and pretends to tip his hat. "Yes ma'am."

Once Shannon leaves, Dean leans back in his chair, looking Sam over.

"So," Dean says, drumming his fingers on the table. "It's time you tell me everything, Sammy."

Sam takes a deep breath and meets Dean's eyes. "No," he says. 

"Yes," Dean says immediately. If this is a stupid tit for tat game, he'll win – he always wins because Sam gets annoyed quicker than Dean.

"I said no," Sam answers, with a note of finality.

Dean stares at him for a full minute, sure there is more coming. "Why not?" Dean asks finally.

"Because I don't want you to know," Sam says. "That's why I wouldn't let Dad tell you in the first place."

Dean's chest feels hollow. He's been pissed at Dad this whole time, sure he was just trying to steer at least one of his sons clear of a demonic nightmare, but it was Sam who cut him out?

"How dare you," Dean says, getting up and kicking his chair out behind him. "You had no right to shut me out of that fight."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, but Dean is not done, and that is way too little, way too late. 

"Sorry is not good enough. That was for Mom. Our mother – _my_ mother. Or don't I get any sort of payback for that? And maybe if I'd been there, Dad would've made it. You ever think about that?"

Sam nods, not meeting Dean's eyes. "Every day."

"Then you owe me an explanation," Dean says. "At the very least."

"No," Sam says again. He looks up at Dean, and there is heartbreak in his eyes, something Dean can't understand. They'd spent most of a year distant, cold, fighting. What could be worse than that? What could make him risk it again?

"Sam," Dean says, clenching his fists because he doesn't know what else to do with himself. "I can't live not knowing. If you won't tell me, I'll just go looking for myself, and you know I'll find out." 

"Don't," Sam says. "Dean, what you find won't make it any easier."

"You don't know that!" Dean shouts. "How the hell do you know how hard this was on me? We lost Dad years ago, but until last year, I thought we had each other's backs. Now I can't trust you either? So I've lost my entire family, that's what you're telling me – and you think whatever I find out could somehow be worse than that."

"Dean," Sam says, obviously miserable. Dean can see the conflict written on his face, but Sam doesn't crack easy, and Dean knows this is as far as he's going to get for now, so he throws his hands up and walks out.

~~~

  
Dean doesn't go far – he remembers the boxes in the back of Sam's Prius and heads around to the garage to see if they're still in there. Sam hasn't driven anywhere since he got back, only ridden shotgun in Baby a couple of times. He walks to school – not that he's been _there_ recently, so maybe Dean'll get lucky and there'll be something in Dad's stuff.

There's a bunch of interesting crap in the boxes, weapons and books and boxes carved with sigils, but the one thing he's looking for is at the very bottom of the second box. Dad's journal.

Dean's only had the chance to look through it a couple of times, hurriedly done while Dad was out at the bar or passed out afterward. He knows some of the opening entries by heart. He skips to the end, flipping through the last few pages to find the most recent entry on the demon.

There's a couple of pages about a magic gun – an old Colt antique that can kill anything, and Dean glances back at the boxes with the sigils. He'd bet it's in one of those – and he just left it sitting in the garage for weeks. He curses Sammy out and keeps reading.

Dad'd found the name of the demon – Azazel – by torturing one of his followers for months, locked up in one of his storage units. The text stops in the middle of Dad's notes from the interrogation – the last note is something about preparing the chosen children, and Dean shudders. That sounds ominous. 

The last pages are ripped out, and if Dean knows Sam, they were burned with Dad. Damn it. He throws the stuff back into the boxes and carries them into the house, straight upstairs to his room. Sam's nowhere to be seen, so either locked up in his room or out walking it off, or, Dean realizes as he hears the water, taking a shower. He stuffs the boxes in the back of his closet. Not safe if Sam decides to go snooping, but Dean can only hope that Sam's actually forgotten about them. Dean'd moved the pile of Dad's clothes into the guest bedroom they saved for him, so there haven't been any reminders in plain sight. 

He shuts his door and heads out, climbing in Baby and letting her rip. He needs to be on the road for a while, and he knows exactly where he's going.

~~~

_Outside Sioux Falls, South Dakota, August 2006_

"Dean," Bobby says, greeting him with a hug. "I'm so sorry about your dad."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean says, sailing right past that because the grief is an albatross around his neck and he needs to deal with Sam while he's still got his righteous anger burning. "I need to talk to you about Sam, though."

Bobby looks him over, and Dean can see when he decides, the way his shoulders slump. "All right. Better get you something to drink."

Once they're settled in with a couple of tumblers of whiskey, Bobby says, "So what do you want to know?"

"Everything," Dean says. "Sam won't tell me."

Bobby nods. "I'll tell you what I can, but I don't know everything. And you gotta understand that the only thing Sam's afraid of is losing you."

Dean blinks. What could make him turn his back on Sam? His fear rachets up a notch and suddenly he's not sure he wants to know this. But he's come this far, and not knowing would leave him always wondering. It'd eat away at him more surely than dealing with whatever the hell this is.

"That demon, Azazel. He had some kind of grand scheme to build a demon army and let them loose on Earth."

Dean nods. He'd gotten that much out of Dad's journal. 

"Well, from what your daddy could get out of that demon spawn of his, seems like he wasn't planning on leading that army himself."

Dean's heartbeat kicks up a notch. He doesn't need a map to figure out where this is going.

"He's had an eye on Sam since the night of that fire – if not before. Had demons watching him every step of the way, they traced his history back and found links to one in near every town you'd settled in for more than a month."

Dean downs the rest of his whiskey, closing his eyes and resting the cool glass against his forehead. That explains the paranoia that showed up around February.

"Why Sam?" Dean asks.

Bobby shrugs. "They found a bunch more kids the demon'd targeted. Ash found the obvious ones, the ones with fires in their nurseries, but there were others."

"Wait – so there are a bunch of kids like Sam?" Dean asks, wincing because it's just Sam, he's just a kid, it's not like he's a monster or something.

"Guess so," Bobby says. "Think Sam's in touch with some of them still."

"What was the plan, then, make a bunch of generals?" 

Bobby pours another shot of whiskey into Dean's empty glass and fills up his own before he sets the bottle in front of Dean. "No idea. As far as I know, they never got that much out of the demon before they had to kill him."

"Kill him," Dean says, because he knows the Colt exists, is probably in his bedroom closet right now, but it still blows his mind that these things can be killed. 

"That Colt is something else," Bobby says. "Course, it kills the meatsuit, too."

Dean nods. The collateral damage is too much for anything but the worst demons. He and Bobby drink their whiskey in silence for a while, Bobby thankfully willing to let Dean wrap his head around all this new information. The concept of a demon army is shocking enough, but recruiting humans to lead them… "Why?" Dean asks. "Why humans? Why _these_ humans? What's so special about Sam?"

Bobby shrugs. "That's what they were trying to work out when they went incommunicado. I didn't hear anything else from John or Sam until…" He glances at Dean, takes a sip of whiskey. "Until it was over."

Dean nods. He can't imagine how hard that was for Sam, seeing Dad and the demon kill each other. The anger comes up again as he can't help thinking if he'd been there, maybe they could've saved Dad. 

"It's bullshit, them cutting me out. And you too – who the hell hunts a demon alone? What if Sam…"

Dean pounds his fist on the table, making their glasses jump. _What if Sam._ That's really the part that pisses him off, isn't it? He's supposed to take care of Sam and they took that away from him, they made it so he couldn't do his damn job, his real job, the only one that counts. 

He bangs his fist on the table again and gets up, walking circles around Bobby's tiny living room. He's been trying to do something with this anger for a month, and it's just burning a hole right through him. He feels so helpless, unable to do anything – even hunt, since there hasn't been much on the radar. 

"Damn it," Dean says, clutching his head. It feels like it's going to explode – his thoughts are circling, chasing each other's tail and his anger is just simmering, hot and unresolved, and all he really wants is some fucking answers.

"You said Ash found some of these other kids?"

Bobby nods. "Four nursery fires, including Sam's." 

"Okay, I'm off to the Roadhouse," Dean says, picking up his glass and finishing the second shot. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby looks at him with a familiar fond consternation on his face. "Don't thank me. I hate having to pick between you boys. When you and Sam work this out, you bring him here so I can whup his ass for making me keep his secrets."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, giving a grin and two-finger salute. "I'll make him bring the whiskey."

~~~

_Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska, August 2006_

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Ellen says, throwing her towel down on the bar and coming out to give Dean a hug. "And to what do I owe the honor?"

"Sam being an asshole," Dean answers, and Ellen swats him upside the head.

"You cut that poor kid some slack. You always were too tough on him."

"Hey," Dean says getting his arms up to block the next one, "He is _not_ all sweetness and light, and I know you know that first hand."

"Yeah, well," Ellen says. "At least it doesn't take the worst happening for _him_ to come visit." She walks back behind the bar, gives him the once over. "How are you doing?" She slides a shot of bourbon across the bar at him. He upends it, setting the shot glass upside-down on the bar. He doesn't have time to let Ellen drink him under the table – he's on a mission. 

"I'm concentrating on how pissed off I am at Sam," Dean says. 

Ellen nods. "Okay. But when you're done with that – when you need someone after this mess is all cleaned up, you boys come pay me n' Jo a proper visit, you hear?"

"I hear," Dean says. "Where is that wildcat, anyway?" 

"Did I hear someone take my name in vain?" a voice calls from the storeroom. 

Jo pokes her head around the corner, her eyes going big when they light on Dean. "Dean!" she shouts, running across the room and launching herself at him. Dean catches her, habit born of long practice, and she wraps around him like an octopus. 

It's good to have someone to hold for a minute; the Winchesters aren't huggers but the Harvelles are, and Dean never even had a chance with them. 

"I'm sorry about your dad," Jo whispers in his ear, close. "I miss him, too."

Dean squeezes her tight one last time, tapping her arm twice to know it's time, and she disentangles herself from him and climbs down him like he's a tree. "Thanks," Dean says. "But I'm here to see the resident genius." He glances back at Ash's door, and the sign says the doctor is in. "He sleeping it off? Or can I knock?"

Jo glances at her watch. "It's after two. That's good enough."

Dean knocks on Ash's door and Ash is, for a change, nearly completely dressed. For some reason he is bare-chested under his flannel vest, but it's close enough to fully-clothed, Dean isn't going to say anything. "Dean Winchester," he says, holding his hand out in solemn greeting. "Sorry about your old man."

"Thanks," Dean says, for the third time today, and he is mighty sick of thanking people for reminding him his dad's dead. "But I'm here for what you were working on for him and Sam. Those other nursery fires."

Ash nods. "I figured you'd come for that. Sam told me not to tell you, so of course it was just a matter of time."

Dean's anger is starting to taste bitter; it's starting to be about Sam, and that hurts him in a very different way than it hurt when he was just mad at Dad. Sam's been keeping secrets, big ones, and making all their friends keep them, too.

"Here you go." Ash hands him a manila folder, copies of all the articles about the fires, names and addresses of the kids, and any other juicy tidbits he managed to dig up. Dean leafs through it for just a second before closing it and offering Ash his hand again. Ash grips his forearm and says something in a foreign language – Klingon, Dean's guessing, just by how brutal it sounds – and Dean gives him a polite nod and tight smile.

"I know you didn't come all this way to see Ash for two minutes and skip out before dinner," Ellen says as Dean turns toward the door. She looks like she's serious, and Dean knows well enough he'll get shot in the back with rock salt if he tries to make it to the Impala without sitting down to dinner with them.

"No ma'am," Dean says, turning around and giving her his best shit-eating grin, "I would never."

~~~

_Duluth, Minnesota, September 2006_

After Dean'd scoured the folder Ash'd given him, one dead kid (there was a case there, Dean could smell it – it was all over the obit) and two other kids besides Sam, he'd gone to do some investigating. He'd sniffed around Max Miller's death as much as he could, but no one seemed to have any first-hand knowledge of what went on. Next up had been Andy Gallagher, who'd taken Baby out from under his nose with a smile and polite request. He'd given her back – presumably on orders from Sam, since he'd delivered her with a message that Sam said he should come home. 

_Ha._

Scott Carey'd been next, already waiting for him when he got there, twitchy and always with his hands out in front of him, and he wouldn't say a word. Literally not one, not even hi, or go away. Dean'd stuck around for a while, watched him live his depressing and lonely life, before he'd gone to Duluth. It was easy enough to track Sam and Dad – they're hardly the type to blend in – but, just as he expected, there weren’t really any clues left for Dean to find. 

He gets a hotel room anyway. He's gotten stingier with his money now that he knows he has a real credit history, which makes no sense as he still uses the fake cards for all his traveling. It's just that he knows Sam's paying for things, even the fake cards, so he wants to be responsible about it.

He's pissed at Sam right now though, so he goes into town, finds the fanciest hotel he can, and rents the fanciest room they have. It's six hundred dollars a night and Dean can't _wait_ to see what Sam does when he sees that on the credit card bill.

That makes Dean sit straight up in bed. Sam gets his credit card bills. He knows every single thing Dean has ever bought with this credit card – maybe with all his credit cards – and suddenly he's worried that Sam might go snooping in his room for the stuff he bought at the adult toy store after he and Shannon started to be more of a regular thing. Not that there's really anything to be embarrassed about, but still. It's private. 

Shit. He knows about every weird or stupid thing Dean's done for the last… years. 

And that pisses him off again, because it's one more thing Sam knows about him when he doesn't know _anything_ about Sam. Nothing about Sam is what he thought it was, and it breaks Dean's fucking heart. He never knew the kid at all.

He drinks himself into a stupor, fast and stupid, trying to get away from the feeling of drowning.

~~~

There are several texts from Sam when he wakes up, all concern, and he deletes them without a response.

Sam starts calling while he's in the middle of deleting, not five minutes after Dean swam to consciousness. Come to think of it, Sam has always called him while he's awake, unless it was life or death. Dean ignores the call and runs a hand down his face. He hates that he's scrutinizing everything now, looking for any little detail that will prove that Sam isn't a stranger, someone he doesn't know at all. 

Sam calls three more times before he leaves a voicemail. Dean deletes it without listening and turns off his phone. He has half a mind to drink himself to oblivion again, but he's not feeling it. He wants to kill something. He looks for a hunt.

~~~

_Medford, Wisconsin, October 2006_

Dean gets a job at the circus, easy as pie. Apparently he looks like circus people. He thinks maybe it's because he's angry and wasn't willing to play nice in the interview. Maybe he seems like the kind of person who's desperate enough to join the circus.

He catches a break as he's wandering around picking up trash, trying to find some kind of EMF. A little girl waves at a clown her parents can't see. He's reckless, he goes off half-cocked, and when he shoots the thing, he scares it enough to run away. 

He shouldn't be hunting. He knows he's being stupid but he's just so _angry_ and there's nothing he can do with it. He doesn't have the patience to hit the books, so he goes snooping around the circus instead, looking for clues. Whatever the thing is, it has to have left something that will tell Dean what it is.

He's in the funhouse when it finds him – the knife thrower, of _course_ it's the knife thrower – and pins him to the wall. He's not sure why it didn't kill him outright, obviously it's not squeamish about that sort of thing given the state the victims were found in, but maybe it doesn't want to make a mess on its home turf. Dean's thankful, anyway, and is working on getting himself loose when it finally becomes visible and cackles as it lunges at him playfully, pretending to stab. Whatever this thing is, it is seriously fucked up about killing things.

Dean's got a knife on him, so when the thing makes a real move, he twists sideways and stabs it as hard and fast as he can, burying the knife up to the hilt under the thing's ribs. It howls and backs off, but just far enough to draw Dean's knife out of itself. He turns it over once and lets it fall to the ground. "Not quite," it says, whatever that means, and starts advancing on Dean again. 

Dean's a little disappointed that his death's going to come at the hands of a psychotic circus clown, but it's not like he didn't know this was part of the life – and he knows he went into this unprepared. _Fuck, Sammy, I'm sorry,_ he thinks. He's going to leave Sam with the same kind of mess he's been dealing with, anger and blame and people you love making stupid decisions and not letting you help. _Fuck._

"Hey!"

Dean's hopes soar at the sound of Sam's voice, scary loud in this place and echoing. He's got a pair of blades in his hands, which is probably bad news because Sam was always a one-handed type of knife fighter. It must be prepared some special way, and Sam proves his theory by setting down one of the knives and kicking it over to Dean. 

Dean doesn't need it, though, the fight is over in a couple of seconds when Sam gets in a lucky shot, taking a slice on the arm himself. Not usually the way Sam fights – it's more of Dean's style to take a little damage to go for the kill – but Dean's not complaining.

"Dean," Sam says, running over to yank on the knives holding Dean to the wall. "You okay?"

"Fine," Dean says, trying to stay pissed because he's still mad at Sam, but not doing it very well, because it's been almost two months and he's actually happy to see him.

"What the hell were you doing? Did you even know what that thing was?" 

Even Sam's pissy concern is endearing right now. "Nah," Dean says, trying for bravado and falling way, way short. 

"Well, I do," Sam says, still pissy. "It's a rakshasa." Dean looks down at the blade in his hand. "Brass," Sam says, yanking the last of the knives out from Dean's sleeve. "And don't think that was easy to find, either."

Sam yanks him in, giving him a short hug, tight enough to steal his breath. "Damn it, Dean, you shouldn't be hunting alone."

Dean pulls back, getting his hands up between them. "I've been hunting alone for years now," he argues, shifting his shoulders to re-set his leather jacket. 

"No, Dean, you haven't," Sam says. "If you really think you were alone, you don’t know me very well."

It's true – Dean knows it's true, knows that even when things were bad between them, Sam always had his back, texted him necessary info and made sure Dean checked in regularly, even if it was just a shitty text to complain about how Sam's a girl and he doesn't want him to worry.

"You mean _I_ shouldn't hunt without _you_ ," Dean says, spitting the words out, because it only makes it hurt all the more that Sam cut him out, and now he has nothing – no revenge, no closure, no father. He has a brother, one that he doesn't even know anymore. He's starting to wonder if he ever did. "The way you and Dad did without me."

"That was to protect you, Dean." Sam's standing between Dean and the door out of the room, like he thinks Dean might escape into the night. "This is just because you're pissed at me. And that's fine – I get you're mad, you can be pissed forever, if you want. But don't do stupid shit just because you're mad. Yell at me. Punch me. Whatever, take it out on me. Don't go off half cocked."

Dean listens to Sam's little speech, spitefully a little glad to hear Sam with some of the same anger he's been carrying around for a couple months now. It makes him even more reckless. Part of him wants to punch Sam, absolutely does, but he's never hit Sam in anger before, and if there's one thing he's always promised himself he wouldn't do, it's that. 

The anger is still boiling over, though, so he throws a punch into the wall. It's the same fist he punched into the sidewalk months ago, and it aches. Fuck. 

"Dean," Sam says, noticing Dean's pain because he's Sam, and he's always noticed. "Stop it." He takes Dean's fist into his hands and inspects the damage. Just a split knuckle this time, but the bones ache. Probably didn't heal right after the last time. Splinting your own breaks isn't easy, and he wasn't exactly careful. Watching Sam look over his wounds shifts something inside him, sets the rage aside for just a minute, so he can feel how much he loves Sam, and how much his anger hurts them both.

"I was just trying to keep you safe," Sam says quietly, keeping his eyes on Dean's hand. "I don't regret it."

"Bullshit." Dean yanks his hand of out Sam's grip.

Just like that, the anger is back, rising up in him like a tidal wave. They cut him out, they purposely left him out of the fight they've all been working toward their whole lives, didn't let him do his one job, and now Dad's dead.

Dean meets Sam's eyes, won't let him look away. He has to know if Sam is lying to himself or if he's just lying to Dean. "Dad might've agreed to keep me safe, but you wanted to keep your little secret, whatever it is. Your secret cost Dad his _life_ , Sam."

Sam nods, accepting that blame. Dean can see the guilt and sorrow in the way his shoulders bow. He's not apologizing though, which is not like Sam. Maybe he thinks it was a necessary evil. "How am I supposed to live with that?" Dean shouts, finally letting it all out. "Knowing you cut me out and maybe I could've saved Dad?"

"You couldn't've, Dean," Sam says. "Trust me when I say it was going to end this way no matter what."

"But we'll never know," Dean says, guilt sitting on him like a four-hundred pound gorilla. 

"You'll just have to trust me," Sam says. "I was keeping you out of it for you just as much as for me."

Dean turns around, looking for another wall to punch. He's too far away from the other side of the room, so he just turns around helplessly, hands on his head. Sam's standing there with his arms at his sides, presenting himself like a target. Dean hates himself for how tempting it is. He releases his fist, shaking it out, breathing to settle the anger back down before he does something he'll regret.

"I can't," Dean says finally. "I need answers, Sammy, I can't get over this until you tell me everything."

Sam seems to consider this, taking a minute before his eyes slide to the side. "We should probably bury that thing."

~~~

Burying it doesn't take long – they don't bother with the whole six feet, but they do salt and burn, leaving the brass blade in its heart for good measure. It never hurts to be extra-careful where monsters are concerned.

"You coming home?" Sam asks. He sounds perfectly normal, but Dean can feel the apprehension in the tense way he's holding himself. He looks like a coiled spring, like if Dean refuses Sam might try to load him into the trunk.

"You gonna talk?" Dean shoots back.

Dean's heart aches for just a second when it sees the look that crosses Sam's face. It's sorrow and despair and resignation. "Yeah."

"Sam," Dean says, wanting to do something to reassure him, even though he can't know what's going to happen. He wants to say he'd never leave, there's nothing that could tear them apart, but after the last year… he just doesn't know anymore.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says, grabbing his bag out of the back of his Prius and throwing it into the Impala's trunk. "I realize you're going to leave either way, and if you're going to leave, I want it to be because you know everything and made the choice. It's not fair, you not knowing. Just…" Sam opens the door to the Impala, sits down heavily in the front seat, and something is so right about that, Dean's about to promise him everything. 

Until he says, "I just don't want you to hate me." 

Sam's certainty hurts. Dean knows that Sam sometimes gets wrong-headed ideas about himself and needs to be corrected, but he can't know for sure that Sam's wrong this time, and that hurts him just as much as it hurts Sam. He can't say anything; without knowing the whole story, there's no way to know what he's going to do.

He climbs in and shuts the door. "Leaving the green machine?"

Sam shrugs. "I reported it stolen once I got out of the city. We'll see if they find it."

Dean nods, not really caring about Sam's eco-friendly plastic piece of crap, staring down at the wheel and thinking about the five hours in front of them. It's a long drive and if Sam ends up talking, it'll be even longer. 

Sam reaches over and turns on the radio, cranking it up loud enough that Dean knows exactly what it signals. He's fine for now. He can wait. He nearly died today, he doesn't need to talk to Sam right now.

He can't help looking over, though, watching Sam stare out the window, feeling the sorrow he can see in Sam's face down to his bones. It eats at him, acid in his guts burning away the grief and the uncertainty and the rage, leaving just the road and the music and Sam's face reflected in the window.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, October 2006_

They get in late, so they go straight to their respective bedrooms and Dean sleeps like the dead, reveling in the feel of his own mattress under his body. The sheets are fresh, too – he wonders if maybe Sam changed them out every week out of habit. Or maybe hope. 

It settles him just a little to know that Sam misses him at home; at least that part of their relationship is the same. He misses Sam too, though the feeling isn't completely wiped out, even when Sam is sitting right next to him. It's been so long since he and Sam have been normal that he can't remember what it felt like, coming home and having all his worries stripped away.

Sam's gone when he wakes up. There's a note on the fridge that says, "Class, be home by 4" and Dean marvels at it. They've never kept tabs on each other like that before. Did he think Dean would leave? Maybe he did. 

Dean spends the day going through Dad's junk. The box he stuffed in the back of the closet is still there, untouched. He's had Dad's journal with him the last few months and he's scoured every page for any kind of hint about Sam or the demon. He's also looked at Dad's medal and the postcard tucked away under the lining and just taken in Dad's neat handwriting, trying to get every possible ounce of Dad's essence out of it. 

The problem is that he can't ignore the remains of a few torn-out pages that tell him Sam absolutely ripped them out on purpose. It stokes a fire that's been living in his gut for a long time, and as he goes through the rest of Dad's stuff, it burns hotter and hotter. 

The Colt is beautiful. There are only four bullets left, but Dean doubts they'll come across something as big as the demon again, so he probably won't need them. He stares at it a long time, eventually taking it apart and cleaning it gently. He's sure Sam did that after they killed the demon, but it's been months, and you've got to treat a gun with respect.

The rest of the box is crammed full of random crap. There's some kind of hex bag that Dean can't tell is good or bad, so he just tips the box sideways so he doesn't have to touch it. A few folders of material on different cases Dad worked before or during the demon, a vetala and some kind of water spirit. A few loose crayons, a nice pen and pencil set with the initials DIH on them, some loose change. The detritus of his Dad's life, swept off the dresser of his last hotel room, Dean's sure.

The anger spreads, blooming across his chest and into his arms, and as he watches the clock tick down to 4:00, he gets more and more restless. He can't do this. He can't sit here in the house his brother bought without telling him because he had a job he hadn't mentioned and a whole life Dean knew nothing about. He doesn't even know Sam Winchester. Not the way he thought he did, back when they were stupid kids and Dean helped him get into college in the first place.

He pulls out his biggest duffel bag and packs it for a hunt. A long one, the kind that he knows might take a month or more because it's dependent on the moon cycle. On top of all the jeans and t-shirts and socks, he reverently places the Colt and Dad's journal.

It's sitting in front of Dean on the coffee table when Sam gets in at 4:07. Dean watches Sam's face take in the picture, a quick eye over the bag and Dean, sitting in his leather jacket, jingling his keys around his finger. 

"You got something to say to me before I go?"

~~~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter notes:** No triggery things, but more secrets and Dean figuring some stuff out. Mentions of Jess.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, October 2006_

Dean watches Sam's face closely as he moves through his immediate reactions of fear and disappointment, and lands on resignation within a second or two. To his credit, he squares his shoulders and takes a seat in the chair next to the couch. 

"Where do I start?" Sam asks, and Dean can't honestly tell if it's rhetorical or not. He decides to wait, because chances are Sam knows better than he does where to start.

Sam takes a deep breath and sighs it out heavily. "Well I suppose you worked out that the demon that killed Mom wasn't there for her."

Dean's mind lurches sideways. It was the kids the demon was after, of course, but he hadn't put two and two together. He can feel how dumbfounded he must look and Sam gives him a pitying smile. 

"Imagine what it felt like when I figured that one out. Mom died because of _me_."

Some small part of Dean reaches up from the depths, some natural instinct he's always had to comfort Sam. There's a lot more explaining to do, though, and Dean's not going to let him off that easy.

"And then Dad died because he was obsessed with killing the demon, so that's on me, too."

"Maybe you shouldn't have cut me out, then." 

Sam shakes his head, meeting Dean's eyes for a long second but lowering them before he speaks. "The demon wanted me, Dean. He'd been tracking me my whole life. Demons in every town we lived in for more than a month. I've been putting you in danger my whole life, just by _existing_. I wasn't going to let you get killed because I couldn't talk Dad off the ledge. I needed you to be safe. I couldn't live with myself if I got you killed too."

"You don't know what would have happened. Maybe I could have saved him."

"Dean." Sam stares at him, locks eyes and doesn't let Dean look away. There's something there, maybe a plea for understanding, but Dean _can't_. He has to know the truth, he has to know why, because Sam's all he has left now, and if Sam shuts him out again, he'll go crazy.

"Why. That's what I have to know. Why did you cut me out? And don't pull that bullshit that you wanted me safe – that's crap and you know it."

Sam frowns, like he's debating whether or not he's going to tell Dean, and that's just it – Dean can't live like this. He stands and picks up the duffel bag, and Sam stands too, putting his hands up. "No, wait," he says, desperate. "Wait, Dean, I'll… fine, I'll tell you." His face crumples and he looks away, trying not to let the tears fall.

Dean has to control his natural urge to pull Sam in, to rub his back and tell him it'll be okay. He lets go of the bag and sits back down on the couch, hard. Sam doesn't sit, he kicks the coffee table out of the way and starts to pace, the way Dad used to when he was working a case.

"You ever ask yourself why the demon wanted me?" Sam asks. This one is rhetorical, though Dean thinks he knows the answer. He stays silent. Sam glances at him and nods. "Yeah, psychic something or other. That's what all the kids have in common."

Dean desperately wants to know what kind of superpower Sam has, but suddenly he's terrified, too. Andy took his car away from him with nothing more than a smile and a polite request. Max Miller was willing to kill. A sheet of cold descends on him and Dean shivers.

Sam's a monster.

"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm a monster. I got Mom killed, I got Dad killed, and I am a grade A, 100% freak. You want to know what scares me about that?"

Dean already knows, and suddenly he doesn't want to hear it, but it's too late now, oh, shit, why… why did he do this to himself? Why couldn't he leave well enough alone?

"Well, it's not that you'd kill me. Hell, it'd be a relief knowing that you _could_ , if it needed to be done." 

Dean doesn't even know what to say to that. Kill Sam? He could never. He'd never let himself think that way, not once, there was never a question of if he'd be strong enough to kill Sam if he'd been bitten or turned. Of course not. 

"No, killing me wouldn't be that bad," Sam says, wheezing out something that sounds like a laugh that shriveled up and died in his throat. "No what I'm really afraid of is that you'll leave. Forever. And… I'll always be connected to you, but I won't ever get to see you again."

Silent tears are trickling down Sam's face, and Dean can feel the sharp ache in his side that means he wants to make it all right for Sam, but there's no way to do that. Dean puts his hands on his head. What is he supposed to do? 

He can hear Sam blow out a deep breath, getting himself under control, comforting himself, which Dean hates that he even knows how to do. "It's okay, Dean. I understand."

Ha, that's rich, Sam understands. Dean doesn't even understand. He can feel the way his anger's ebbed away while he's been sitting here, watching Sam struggle to find words in a way that rarely happens to him. There's still hurt under the hood, some wariness, but the anger's been lost somewhere, and he can't even remember when he lost it. 

He could leave, get in Baby and drift for a while, figure out how to be a nomad again.

All it takes is the thought of being alone on the road for Dean to realize – he can't do that anymore. He only ever could because Dad and Sam were with him. When Sam settled down, Dean settled down too, because he can't rest without Sam. Whatever Sam is, he's Dean's responsibility. He's Dean's solace. Hell, right now, he's Dean's entire world. 

When Dean looks up at Sam, there's a curiosity there, on his face, and dawning hope. "Stay," he says, and Dean knows there's only one answer to that.

He throws himself off the couch and into his brother's arms, standing on tiptoe to do his best to envelope Sam in the hug, putting a hand on Sam's skull. "I'm not going anywhere." 

Sam clings to him and Dean lets it soothe the rest of the aches, the empty places where Sam has always lived – up until the last year, at least. "You can't cut me out again," he says. "Ever, you hear me?"

He feels Sam's nod more than sees it, and holds on tight.

"Whatever you get into, we'll get through it together. You're all I've got now, Sammy."

"I promise, Dean," Sam says into Dean's collar. "It's you and me, forever."

~~~

Their beer is lukewarm at best by the time they get around to it, sitting on the couch and shooting the shit. Sam'd started with a story from class, some smart aleck that thought he knew something about something, at least until Sam'd rattled off the Latin exorcism without breaking a sweat.

The duffel bag is sitting under the table, lurking. Dean can feel it there, the pressure of more information that Sam needs to give him. He won't get it all tonight, but there's an openness to Sam that he hasn't felt in over a year. He'll let Sam tell him at his own pace. He's staying – that gives him privileges to ask whatever he wants, whenever he wants – but for now, he wants to see how Sam's brain unravels this mess, look at it from a different perspective.

He fills in the blanks around Dad's standoffishness, explains that Dad was hunting demons, torturing them for information by half-exorcising them and waterboarding them with holy water. "It was scary," Sam says. "Dean, I didn't even recognize him."

Dean can't imagine it, and he's been with Dad on some hunts that have gone bad, seen just how far Dad would go, especially if one of his sons was on the line. He must have been terrified about Sam to go so far. 

It becomes clear the more Sam talks about it that Dad's reasons for keeping it from Dean are the opposite of Sam's – Dean's pretty sure Dad could've killed Sam if he'd gone darkside, and he knew that Dean couldn't. He was trying to spare Dean, or at least keep him out of the way. He's not even sure Sam fully understood that part; he hopes Sam didn't.

Pizza comes a couple hours later, and it takes a full six pack and a couple of shots of whiskey before Sam gets to the part Dean's been dying to hear.

"You know, all the other kids, their stuff started happening last year."

Dean nods. "Demon was getting you all primed for something."

"Yeah, I suppose," Sam says. "I don't even want to know what that might have been. Or how he thinks we would've joined him. None of the other kids I met were bad, except Max, who was a mess because of his circumstances more than anything."

"Heard that one went bad," Dean says. 

"Yeah, Max had telekinesis, and he used it for revenge on the people that hurt him."

Dean nods. That fits with the story he pieced together from his investigation. 

"Nearly killed Dad, but…"

Sam looks up at Dean. Dean can feel his heart jump, this is the only other piece of the puzzle he cares about and now that they're here, it scares the crap out of him. He doesn't say anything, tries to look encouraging the way Sam does when they're trying to gentle information out of a victim.

Sam sighs and smiles a little. "You suck at that, Dean. I don't know how you ever get people to talk to you."

He's better at it when "people" aren't his brother, but Dean's not even going to dignify that with a response. He waits, giving up on the encouraging look and going with annoyed.

"I used telekinesis, too, when we were with Max," Sam says. Dean's confused; that's not what he was expecting. "It was adrenaline, I was worried about Dad, and it just happened."

"So, that's your superpower?" Dean asks. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

"No," Sam says. "I started getting visions about a year ago. Mostly about hunts you were on. That's what the weird phone calls were about."

Dean remembers some of those, some very specific breaks in his cases. It'd been weird at the time, but Sam'd always had a knack for knowing when he needed help and what that help was. 

"But with Max, you got telekinesis, too?"

Sam shrugs. "I never did it again, and I tried a couple times. I figured it was the adrenaline."

"Did you pick up any of Andy's thing?" Dean asks, because that would be cool. It'd make cases a hell of a lot easier to just force people to tell them the truth.

"Nope, and I really tried on that one." Sam laughs, and something in Dean's chest loosens when he sees Sam's dimples. "I hear Andy took the Impala right out from under you."

Dean huffs out an annoyed breath. "Well, it's just cheating."

Sam's still smiling, and Dean can feel the way things are tilting back into place, slowly. There's still a lot that'll take some time, but some of the little fissures where he was cracking like hardpan desert are filling up, healing under the shower of Sam's undivided attention.

~~~

"So when you said you were thinking of taking a vacation," Sam says, leaving the question open.

They've switched entirely to shots and Dean's feeling better than he has in over a year. "Yeah," he says, letting his head fall back to rest on the back of the couch. "Suppose I did."

There's more; Sam always seems to come at Dean obliquely, starting with something close to what he wants to talk about but not on the nose. Sometimes Dean can guess – they don't usually have so much going on in their lives that there is a plethora of options. It doesn't help that he's buzzed though, and only partially from the alcohol. He waits it out. If he doesn’t guess and address the question Sam's _really_ asking, Sam will eventually get there.

"Well, you're welcome to be a househusband and keep the place clean and all," Sam says, and that's it, that's what he's angling for. He knows Dean'll go nuts sitting around the house with nothing to do.

"Ha ha," Dean says, but he's a little terrified, now. He's never had a real job. Nothing more than day labor when he needed cash and didn't have the opportunity to win or cheat it out of people. 

"There's an auto shop a couple blocks over," Sam says. "Jesse's pretty cool and never has enough people."

Dean knows his way around Baby, inside and out, but he's not so sure about any car made after 1980. Still, it's work he enjoys, it'd keep him busy. "Worth a shot," Dean says. 

"I'm sure there's plenty of other stuff you can do, if you don't want to do that," Sam says. He doesn't sound like he believes it, though. "You could bartend for Shannon."

"Hell no," Dean says, and Sam laughs at him, probably because he's making a face just thinking about it. But then he thinks about Shannon, about how he's going to be around for a while, and he smiles. "But thanks for reminding me – I have to call her tomorrow."

Thinking about all the great, kinky sex in his future reminds him about Dave. Shit, Sam's recently broken up. Is it mean for him to bring Shannon here? He's never done this, he doesn't know what the rules are. Maybe Sam likes kinky sex, he could hook up with Shannon too. It seems weird, or like it should seem weird, thinking about him and Sam fucking the same person. 

"Sorry about Dave," Dean says. It seems like the thing to say. 

Sam's eyes crinkle up sadly. "Thanks. I can't believe he hung on as long as he did. I was a real asshole to him."

Dean raises an eyebrow. He's seen Sam pissed off, but only ever at him and Dad. He's never seen Sam be less than perfectly polite to anyone who's not family. Does that mean Dave was like family? Just how serious was this thing? "Maybe you can try and win him back," Dean suggests. He's never done relationships, but it's a common theme in books and movies. 

Sam shakes his head. "There's no way to explain to him what it was all about, and I can't promise him it won't happen again."

Dean's a little buzzed, but that one doesn't make any sense. Dad's dead; the demon's dead; that particular, weird set of circumstances couldn't possibly happen again. "Of course it won't, don't be stupid. You know about…" Dean's forward momentum fizzles. He can't even think about Sam being one of the demon's Most Wanted. "We got the monster that got Mom. Dad's gone. Nothing like that will ever happen again."

Sam looks at him like he's an idiot, and Dean really isn't sober enough for this. "What?" he says, annoyed.

" _You're_ still alive," Sam says. "And believe me, the kind of crazy I went over this is _nothing_ compared to the kind of crazy I'd be if something happened to you."

Well, Dean supposes that's fair. There haven't been that many close calls for them – that one skinwalker and the shtriga aside – but he knows in his guts things would go badly for him if anything ever happened to Sam. 

He thinks about what he's promised to do here, to stay. He didn't put a time limit on it, but he's pretty sure he'll eventually get cabin fever, or see a hunt, and have to get back in the Impala to check it out. He's a hunter, that's his job. He can't live some boring, nine-to-five life, not even for Sam. And that means he's going to be in danger. He's going to die, probably at the job. He's not reckless – and Sam is meticulous about making sure he's got the research he needs – but you never know. It's monsters. 

"If something happened to me, I'd want you to have someone to come home to," Dean says. "Someone I could trust to take care of you the way I would."

It's not the sort of thing Dean would ever say out loud, normally, but he's on his way to drunk now, and he can pretend he doesn't remember in the morning. Sam will definitely at least pretend Dean didn't turn into a maudlin sap, so it's not like he has to worry about the consequences. "I liked Dave, he was a good one."

Sam nods. "Yeah. That's why it's not fair to him to be part of this life. I can't ever share it with him, I can't –"

"Says who?" Dean's slipped down the couch and has to crane his neck to look up at Sam. When the hell did he get so tall?

"Uh, says Dad? That was rule number one – don't talk about the family business."

Dean shifts. He doesn't talk about the family business, mostly, but it's only because there's no one he's wanted to try and build something more with. Maybe if he'd had more time with some of those women, Cassie, oh, she was great, and seemed like someone he'd like to come back to. Or Lisa. Lisa rocked, though she didn't seem like the girlfriend type. Maybe he could convince her though. 

It occurs to him he could try to settle down with Shannon. Shannon's not the girlfriend type, either, and the fact that he thought about his brother having sex with her a minute ago means he probably doesn't think of her that way. 

"Dean?" Sam asks. "Have you ever told a girl about the family business?"

"Nah," Dean says, though he might have, with Cassie, if he'd had more time. "But I've never stayed with the same woman for more than a couple weeks."

"Except Shannon."

Dean shakes his head. "It's not like that. She's not the settling down type. Dave, though. I think you should try to work things out."

Sam slides down the couch so he's at an even level with Dean. "Pretty sure I burned that bridge."

"Hmm," Dean answers, and pours another couple of shots.

~~~

It's obvious within ten minutes of stepping in the door that Dean doesn't have the kind of skills Jesse needs, and they talk shop for a few minutes before Jesse has to get back to his customers. It's not that Dean couldn't learn, but learning on the job for something as complicated as car repair isn't something he wants to do. And he's not sure he'd really like to spend all day working on the kind of cars that people bring to Jesse's shop.

He wanders for a while, trying to get a better feel for the neighborhood he lives in now, maybe see if there's a help wanted sign up somewhere. He doesn't see anything, and after a late lunch in a café with weird, expensive sandwiches, he heads home, sitting down on the couch with the remote. Nothing appeals, though, and it reminds him of Dave, of looking through the hundreds of channels and laughing because there's really nothing on.

He takes out his phone, bringing up Dave's number and staring at it for a while. Eventually he texts, asking to meet, and Dave sends his new address. Dean's not one hundred percent sure it's a good idea; there's only a vague idea of discussing it last night and Sam being dumb about it, but mostly hopes he doesn't regret it.

~~~

Dave offers a beer, but it's coffee Dean ends up accepting. He had more than enough last night, and his stomach's still a little sour.

"So, how you been?" Dean asks. Dave's apartment is neat and sparsely decorated. It looks barren.

"Fine," Dave says. "Recovering. Trying to get over your brother is harder than it looks. So many question marks, you know? Always wondering if there was something I could've done."

Dean nods. He knows the feeling exactly. "There wasn't, you know."

Dave shrugs. "Sometimes I know that. Sometimes I just miss the hell out of Sam."

"Yeah." It's kind of nice, having someone that truly understands. "I know how you feel."

If it's possible, Dave looks even sadder, like maybe Dean'd crushed some hope he was holding onto. "So you two haven't patched things up?"

"No, we have, mostly. It's just been a really long year. I'm still getting used to things."

"Things?" Dave asks, and shit, Dave doesn't have any idea what went down. He doesn't know about their dad. He doesn't know anything.

"Uh, Dad died," Dean starts. That's the big thing. That's the big thing he can talk about, anyway. 

It's probably too much, though, because Dave's eyes get huge. "What, exactly, was Sam getting into? All those weird books… Is he okay? Are you?"

"I'm okay. Well, as okay as you can be a couple weeks after your dad dies and you finally get your brother back." It's obvious, now that he thinks about it, that he's not here entirely for Sam. He's looking to fill in a few missing pieces himself. That's shitty, he shouldn't be doing that to Dave. He answers the question Dave was really asking.

"Sam's okay," Dean answers. "He misses you."

Dave's eyes get wet, and Dean realizes what a mistake this was. He's an idiot, what the hell was he thinking? "I'm sorry," he says, starting to stand. "I shouldn't have come. I was just… I shouldn't have come."

"No wait," Dave says, putting a hand on Dean's arm. "Please stay. It might help to talk about it."

Whether it's Dean or Dave it might help, Dean can't even guess, but he sits back down. 

"What do you want to know?"

Dean sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Everything."

~~~

It feels good to laugh. Visiting Dave was the best decision Dean's ever made. They switched out coffee for beer and moved to the couch to trade stories about Sam. Dave looks ravenous, leaning forward for every detail of every story. It'd taken Dean a while to warm up to the guy, but he can't fault him for how much he loved Sammy.

After they've traded a couple of their best stories, Dave is the one that finally puts words to it; to Dean's reason for coming, though he hadn't fully realized it at the time. "So you want to know what it was like, those last few months?"

Dean sets his bottle down on the table and relaxes back into the couch. He probably should've started with Dave when he was trying to piece things together, but he'd figured other hunters would have better intel on the kind of thing he needed. They did, but he's got a feeling it'll be Dave that can pull all the pieces together. "Yeah."

"So he's still lying to you."

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It's not lying at this point, it's withholding information, and probably not on purpose. Dean's going to have to ask the questions, though, and that means Sam's still keeping something back. "Sort of."

Dave nods, taking a second to stare at the label of his beer before he says anything. "You know, I didn't get it at first."

Dean has an almost uncontrollable urge to say, "Get what?" but Dave isn't a witness, and this conversation is much more delicate than that kind of fact gathering. He has to be patient. He waits, and when Dave finally looks up and meets his eyes, he seems to find some resolve.

"You two. I didn't get it. I couldn't understand why he put up with you, didn't make you get your own place."

Dean doesn't know what his face does, but Dave points at him and laughs. "Yeah, your face there? That's exactly what his face did. There was zero comprehension of the concept. I almost broke up with him right then."

Dean's anger comes up swiftly, who breaks up with someone because of that?

"Oh, that wasn't all," Dave says. "Yeah, you coming in and out at all hours, that was weird, but it was the _constant_ 'Dean this, Dean that, Dean, Dean, Dean,' that was enough to make me want to stab a fork in my eye."

Off Dean's look, Dave says, "You only know what he's like when you're there. And he's mostly the same when you're not – except he talks about you _all_ the time. It takes a conversational sledgehammer to get him off the subject."

There's a yawning pit of something uncomfortable slowly opening in his stomach. He has a feeling this conversation is not going to be the one he expected at all, and it's starting to freak him out. Still, if he can get the information out of Dave about those last months before the demon, it'll be worth it. So, he waits.

"He dreams about you too. He says 'Dean' in his sleep almost as much as when he's awake." Dave huffs. "He likes morning sex, you know? For a long time I wondered if maybe there was something wrong with you two, if he was in love with you and using me."

Dean curls his lip, and Dave nods. "Yeah, I could tell you weren't on board with anything like that. It was obvious from day one. And I don't know, Sam's never really given any indication of that, but…" He looks up and meets Dean's eyes, taking a deep breath and sighing it out. 

"I knew pretty early on that I'd always be secondary to you. I spent a couple of weeks trying to figure out if I was okay with that."

It's obvious Dave was okay with that; he stuck around for a hell of a lot longer than a few weeks. 

"The thing is, when Sam concentrated on me – and he did, he was unfailingly polite in the beginning. He'd ask about my day and actually listen to the answer, he got to know me well enough to give good gifts – that's huge, you know. So yeah, when Sam was concentrated on me, he was ten times better than any boyfriend I ever had. So I decided to try and make it work. And you know what? It's like you could tell when I did. Suddenly we weren't fighting over the cable anymore. I got to hang out with you two instead of shove off when you came in from wherever you'd been. For a while it was really great – I not only had the world's best boyfriend, I inherited a pretty cool brother, too."

A glance down spares Dean from having to meet Dave's eyes again. He's glad Dave worked it out, and that he was okay with they way they are. Dean's never had a real girlfriend, and Sam might have had a few girlfriends or boyfriends, but Dean can't remember most of them now, and he never really bothered to ask about them. He always figured if they stuck around long enough to ask questions, they could deal with it then. 

"Well, you're the first person to work that out," Dean says. It's a compliment, though he's not sure that's how Dave will think of it.

"Mmm, probably not," Dave says. "Though I may be the first that was truly okay with being second in line to his brother."

There's a denial right there, ready for Dean to put words to it – he wants Sam to be happy, and that's always included a husband or a wife, a couple of kids and a dog or two. But he knows it's the truth, Sam would only ever consider someone who understood about Dean. Not just understood, but accepted. He says, "I'm sorry," instead, because it's screwed up and he knows it.

Dave shrugs. "It's okay. You two are like a carnival sideshow act. Once I got over being jealous of how much of Sam's attention you got, I could enjoy just being a part of it, if only on the periphery." A smile passes over Dave's face and Dean can't help smiling too. He and Sam'll put on a show if they have an audience; they are always more likely to keep in touch with people who play into it.

"But anyway, that's not what you're here about. You're here about those last… what, eight months?"

It's not – he really had intended to try and convince Dave to give Sam another chance, but now that the information is dangling just outside his reach, Dean can't help reaching for it. He nods. "Yeah."

'Well, I suppose you kind of needed that background to really get it," Dave says. "It started after a series of phone calls with your dad."

_This_ is what Dean's here for – holy shit, why didn't he come to Dave first?

"How do you now it was Dad?"

"Because he was screaming at him. 'I need to know, Dad,' 'You owe me, Dad.' That kind of thing. And it went on for a while – that was weird because until those phone calls, I'd never heard Sam raise his voice. He's loud. Scary loud."

Dean knows. He's been on the receiving end of a few of Sam's rages and watched plenty more – mostly at Dad, but occasionally at a monster or witch. 

"And then I assume your dad told him whatever he wanted to know, because he got quiet. He got obsessed. Every minute he wasn't required to be at school, he'd be in his private library, going through those creepy books of his. Sometimes I could lure him out, in the beginning. He looked guilty for ignoring me, spent hours with me away from the house, or in bed. I offered to help, but he said it was really specialized knowledge, nothing I could do. So I started making sure he was eating and sleeping, and staying in touch with you. Or trying, anyway."

Dean's throat constricts and he swallows around it. "Yeah, I remember."

"One time, I brought him the phone. I was just going to tell him it was you, say you must've gotten disconnected and he should call you. I said, 'It's Dean,' and he didn't even look up when he said, 'No it's not.' That was the beginning of the end. I think I realized that if he was cutting you out, I'd already been cut out, and hadn't even noticed."

The feeling of being separated from Sam prickles at the back of his mind, the weird detachment that he can't really describe, just that it felt like Sam was _missing_ somehow, even when he was in the same room. Dean can't help a shiver.

"That bad?" Dave asks. 

Dean nods. "It was pretty bad. So what was it that finally made you leave?"

When he looks at Dave, he can see the sadness descend, like a curtain of cold water. "He said goodbye. He said he was meeting up with your dad, and the goodbye… It was final. Like he was going to his execution. I wasn't going to sit around his house waiting to see if he'd ever come back."

There's a knock at the door that saves Dean from answering. He's not sure what he could say; he's faced his own mortality a few times, but he's never gone _into_ a fight thinking it was his last one. Dave comes back with a package, setting it down on the table. 

"So anyway, I'm glad Sam's okay, I really am. But is that something that happens to you guys a lot, thinking you're going to die?"

Dean looks away. He can't answer honestly; he's a little impressed Dave even caught that in Sam's voice. It speaks to how well he knew Sam, how much he cared. And this all goes back to why there's no room for civilians in the hunting life. Sam's not really in the hunting life – or Dean _thought_ he wasn't, anyway – but it's still close enough that something could go badly wrong and it would be Dean that had to explain it to his husband or wife or kids or whatever. He shrugs. "It's a hazard of the work, sometimes."

Dave nods, slowly. "Is that why, when I asked Sam about settling down, he'd always get squirrely? I just thought I wasn't really what he was looking for, that maybe he was waiting for a woman because it'd be easier."

"Oh, god no," Dean says, without thought. The surprise that registers on Dave's face makes Dean chuckle. "No, I mean… I just think if there's someone long-term, it's gonna be a guy. I don't even know why, there hasn't been anyone before you."

Dave's eyebrows knit together. "What about Jess? She sounded like things were pretty serious."

And now it's Dean's turn for surprise. He's never heard about a Jess. "I never met her," Dean says. "So I don't know how serious it could have been." He doubts himself as soon as the words are out of his mouth. If the last year has taught him anything, it's that Sam has all kinds of secrets and Dean doesn't know about any of them.

"Well, I suppose you're right," Dave says. "She was at Stanford, and Sam never even lived with her, though they dated a long time. He never said what happened, but it sounded like she got sick of waiting for him."

It's the last straw. Dean doesn't know why Sam would keep a serious girlfriend from him, but it's one more thing on the list of things he thought he knew about Sam, and he's starting to feel a little queasy again. He sets his beer down on the table and stands up. "Well, I better get going," Dean says. "I appreciate it, Dave – you've really helped me out. Sorry if I brought back some tough memories."

Dave comes in for a hug and Dean lets him. He's not a hugger by nature, but he likes Dave, and he's a little sorry to think that Dave won't be around anymore. "They were good memories," Dave says, muffled in the collar of Dean's shirt. "Good luck, Dean."

"Thanks," Dean answers, letting go and giving Dave a tight smile. "You too, Dave."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate POV (Bobby): [Sam's discussion with Bobby after John's death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71838042) Phone call between Sam and Bobby after John died. Major spoilers for things that don't get revealed in the story and might color your view of Sam and/or Bobby.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New "relationship":** Dean/new OFC, Dean/OC of unspecified gender  
>  **Chapter notes:** Dean gets it on with someone whose gender isn't identified, but who has some equipment that's new to Dean.

~~~

_The Roadhouse, Nebraska, November 2006_

Turns out Dean's not particularly employable. Unless he wants to work as a supermarket bag boy or garbage collector, he doesn't have any work history or the right skills to land himself a job. He's never done anything but kill monsters and drive cross-country, and there aren't any jobs out there with those skills as a prerequisite. It's the one thing Sam hadn't thought of when he built Dean's real-person history from credit cards and not-exactly-fake addresses.

Sam's been bugging him to ask Shannon for a bartending gig, but he doesn't want to make things weird between them, and her being his boss would definitely make it weird. So to avoid the subject, they take a long weekend and visit the Harvelles.

Unfortunately Jo and Ellen are in the middle of a fight, so the home-cooked meal Dean was looking forward to is probably about as likely as a pink, sparkly unicorn walking through the door. 

"I did the research," Jo shouts, "It's _my_ case!"

"Joanna Beth, I did not raise you to be a hunter. That's the end of it."

Jo storms off and Ellen watches her go, face hard but eyes soft. "Never have kids, boys, they'll just break your heart."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, and Sam just smiles enigmatically. Dean has a sudden flash of Sam, married with kids running around like little hellions, some smarmy toothpaste ad. He can imagine it clear as day, and it twists something in his heart, thinking that's where Sam's headed, and how it's always going to be Dean that's the weird uncle who traipses in and out of their lives, telling funny stories and being a bad influence. 

"Here," Ellen says, handing over a manila folder. "Take it. Do me a favor and get out of here before she comes back."

It's the opposite of what they meant to happen, but Dean's never turned down a hunt, and they've got four days before Sam has to be back at school. He glances at Sam to make sure he's on board – of course he's on board, anything to get away from Ellen when she's pissed – and they both say, "Yes, ma'am," and hightail it out of there.

Unfortunately, neither of them checks the backseat, and when Jo pops up after an hour or so of driving – just far enough for it to be a real pain in the ass to drive her back home – Dean could kick himself. 

"Where's the nearest airport?" Dean asks. "We're dropping you off."

"No you are not, Dean Winchester," Jo says. "That is _my_ case. There's a hell of a lot more to it than what's in the file, and it's all up here," she says, pointing at her temple. Dean rolls his eyes at her in the rear view mirror.

"Fine," he says, "but you know your mom is going to figure it out and I'm not lying to her."

"Not for a little while. I had Ash lay a credit card trail all the way to Vegas. We've got a day or two at least. We'll have to work fast."

~~~

They work pretty fast, but it doesn't matter. Jo may have been planning on using herself as bait (and just what was her plan once she got captured, he wondered, if she'd been working alone?) but Dean sure as hell hadn't been planning on letting her, so when she goes missing and Ellen calls, Dean tells her everything. They're going to get Jo back, Ellen has to know that, but it's her daughter. John wouldn't have been able to sit still if his sons had been in danger.

Something about that hits him funny; John had never flown to Dean's rescue – and he'd never had to, because the few times Dean'd gotten stuck in an impossible situation, Sam'd miraculously shown up. Dean had never had to call Dad, he'd never even considered calling Dad – if he was ever in trouble, it was always Sam that got the call. 

Dean can't think more about it, because Sam is making a plan, and they go into the sewers (again – ugh, he _hates_ sewers), and find her exactly where Sam was expecting. 

They do get Jo back, and before Ellen shows up, but the drive back to Nebraska is one of the longest of Dean's life. They don't get invited to dinner, either, which means they're stuck with greasy tacos and Sam's toxic farts until they get home.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, November 2006_

It felt good to be back hunting. It felt _great_ to have Sam with him. He can't ask Sam to give up school, though, and he promised he'd stay put, at least for a little bit, so eventually he caves and asks Shannon for a job.

"You sure?" she asks, staring his straight in the eyes, and Dean's never backed down from a confrontation before, but this one makes him all sorts of uncomfortable.

Dean shrugs, holding Shannon's eyes. "I promised Sam I'd stick around for a while."

Shannon nods. "You know we're not exclusive," she says. "And my other lovers come in the bar and ask for me."

"Of course," Dean says, being very careful not to let his face show what's going through his mind, which is basically, _thank god_. "I'm not the jealous type."

Shannon smiles. "No, you're not, are you?"

Dean gives her his best shit-eating grin, and she rolls her eyes. "Take a bartending course somewhere – get your license, learn how to make the basics. You can start next week."

~~~

Dean loves bartending. He has always loved showing off, and to get paid for it – and paid well, his tips are outrageous – is fantastic. And then there're the hook-ups. He hadn't figured he was Shannon's only regular, and he's learned most of the rest of them before too long, but there's almost always someone willing to take her home by the end of her shift, and it's obvious that she has lots and lots of sex with at least as many people as Dean has had sex with.

They cool it just a little; he doesn't like to get in the way of her plans most nights, so he doesn't push his luck often – besides, he gets just as many offers. He has company for the night after nearly every shift if he wants it. He doesn't take most of them home – only the out-of-towners that are just passing through. There's one woman, though – Chelsea – that comes in every few weeks, and after their third hook-up at her place, he brings her back to his. Sam's home and up reading when they get there, and his eyes light up at the sight of her. "Hi," he says, giving her a huge grin, dimples and all. 

"This is my brother, Sam," Dean says, and Chelsea's eyes bug out of her head. After a moment she stutters out, "Mr. Winchester! I had no idea, I'm so sorry." 

Sam laughs, his eyes crinkling up and Dean's heart seizes because he hasn't seen Sam laugh like that in a long time. "No worries, Chelsea, please, I know my brother's habits better than anyone. I'm just going to head out for a while, give you two a little privacy."

"Oh my god, no," Chelsea says, looking horrified. "No, Mr. Winchester, please, I can just go."

That gets Dean's attention because hell no, he's not giving up Chelsea for the night. "Or we could go back to your place," he says, trying to make it charmingly suggestive, but it must fall flat because Chelsea turns on him with a face that makes him look like he has three heads and one of them is an alien baby. 

"I can't sleep with my TA's _brother_ ," she says, and Sam shakes his head, putting his hands up.

"It's fine, Chelsea. Your private life has no bearing on your classwork, and believe me, I am very good at keeping those things separate."

It's weird, really. Dean has never seen Sam be a teacher before, and while it's not a part of Sam he doesn't know, seeing it in this context is unfamiliar. He can tell Sam genuinely likes Chelsea – it's obvious – and he's also both amused at the situation and concerned about her. 

Chelsea seems unsure, though, and Dean takes a chance, tugging on her sleeve. "Let's go back to your place," he says. It's only eight blocks from here; walking distance. Just long enough for her to walk off her nerves.

"Not tonight," she says, pulling her sleeve out of his grip. He has a bad feeling that "not tonight" really means "never again" and while that sucks – he'd really liked Chelsea and was pretty thrilled with her being a regular in the rotation – it'd probably be too weird now. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Let me walk you home, then," he says. It's not a terrible neighborhood, but if there's one thing he's learned in this life, it's that you don't give monsters easy targets.

"That's really unnecessary," she says, backing away from them both. "Thanks, though, and I'll see you in class tomorrow, Mr. Winchester."

Dean turns to Sam; he doesn't want to invalidate Chelsea's feelings but he also doesn't want her walking alone at night. Sam nods him after her and Dean follows her out the door. "Chelsea," he says. She's halfway down the walk. "I know you're capable and whatever, but it would give me peace of mind if I could get you home safely. I'll drive, if you don't want to spend more than a few more minutes with me."

It's a chilly night – he can see his breath on the air, and he can see her hesitation, too. He pounces. "Come on," he says, nodding toward the garage. "Wait 'til you see my wheels. You'll be sorry you turned me down."

She smiles – the first one since they walked in the house – so he figures it's a win. "I'm sorry, Dean," she says when he sits down next to her. 

He starts Baby and gives her a bit of gas – he's sure Sam's inside rolling his eyes. "No need for apologies," he says, backing out of the driveway. They drive the few blocks in silence, Chelsea's eyes firmly on the floor. "I hope this isn't the last time I'll ever see you."

She gives him a sad smile before opening her door. "I'm a Classics major. I have to see Mr. Winchester practically every day until I graduate."

Ha, _Mr. Winchester_. It gets funnier every time she says it. He nods. "It was fun while it lasted," he says. "See you, Chelsea."

"Bye, Dean."

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, December 2006_

It's not a bad life, really. There's a rhythm to it. Dean's always liked rhythm. He wouldn't have guessed that routine was his thing, but it moves, and it moves him with it. 

He sleeps until noon most days, getting up easily, wide awake. He feels restless without hunting, but he hates the idea of exercising for no reason, so he goes out and walks the city. He likes to eat his first meal of the day at a deli about ten blocks from their place.

When he gets home, there's coffee, maybe, if he's got a taste for it or is feeling groggy. He isn't, usually, unless it's been an extra late night. He finds it weird, that he doesn't drink coffee much anymore, but the routine has brought a lot of little changes like that, and he finds he doesn't mind. 

Then he putters around the house, does stuff. Laundry is an afternoon thing. There are some great soaps on Telemundo that he watches while he's folding. He puts the clothes away in their drawers when he's done, including Sam's because he can't help snooping, and if Sam minds, he hasn't said anything. Sam comes home after class and they grab dinner. He's taken to cooking, a few easy recipes at first, and then more and more complex stuff as he's learned his way around.

It's a good life. It's simple. And boring. But Sam smiles, helps him with the cooking, and Dean thinks about how great that part of this is, how he could maybe keep it going. For a while, maybe. He chokes a little, thinking about the rest of his life, but for now, it's easy and good and something he can do to make them both happy.

There's an itch, though. He doesn't scour the papers like he used to because there's always a hunt to be found, if he wants one. But hunts really mess with routine, and he's just eased into one that he likes. Still, a series of suicides of moderately famous people is something he can't ignore. Besides, it's local.

The first victim is an archbishop that takes a nosedive off the bell tower of Holy Name Cathedral. That's only a little weird, but the same day, a Chicago fashion mogul is found dead in her bed – overdose of pills, and not the fun kind. 

He can't even say what about the two cases hits him, but he has a sense about these things. He starts with the fashion mogul – easier to play a journalist than a priest – and gets up early the next day to weasel his way into a design shop.

It's tougher than it looks; secretaries in big cities are a lot more hard-nosed than the ones he's spent a lifetime charming. 

"Good morning," he says, holding out his fake business card and giving her his most dashing smile. 

She turns around, rolling her eyes at him as she takes the card. Ouch. "How can I help you?" she asks, but it sure sounds a lot more like "what the hell do you want?"

"I'm writing an article about –"

"Do you have an appointment?" She looks at him impassively. 

"Well, no," he starts, but before he can try to charm his way in, she gives him a dead-eyed look and says, "Well, Mr. Maxwell is booked up through 2009 so I don't think you'll be able to speak to him before your article is due."

Dean's a little shocked at her brusque brush-off, but before he can recover, someone – he can't quite tell if it's a man or a woman – comes up and tuts at her, taking Dean's fake business card and looking at it closely. "Now, now, Katie," he… she… Dean doesn't know what to call this person. Something pops into his head, something Shannon said once about someone she slept with that wasn't male or female, Dean doesn't remember most of it except his sense of utter disbelief, but she said something about using plural pronouns or some shit. Dean tests it out, thinking, _they're kinda cute_ and nods to himself. Got it. They give Dean a once-over and raise an eyebrow. "Don't be mean to the nice reporter."

Katie rolls her eyes. "He wants an appointment with Mr. Maxwell."

The androgynous person laughs and Dean turns on the charm again. If he can't charm Katie, maybe he can charm whoever-this-is. "Listen," he says, "I was just looking for some information for my piece. I'm writing an article on Madame for Chicago Magazine."

"Oh really!" They look him over again, this time less kindly than the last. "What happened to Pierre? He's not sick, is he?"

"No, no," Dean lies easily, hoping this isn't the kind of test where Pierre is really dead, "I'm an intern. This is my big chance – I'm hoping to get hired on based on my editorial on Madame." He adds big eyes and a small smile, and the new person is on the hook again, thank god.

"Don't tease him, Chris," Katie says. "You know you want to show him around, just offer already."

"Yeah, Chris," Dean says, leaning in, waggling his eyebrows. "Don't tease me."

That seals the deal – Chris smiles broadly at him and says, "All right, fine. Come with me."

Chris leads him down a wide hallway full of overly-fashionable people that raise their eyebrows and look down their noses at Dean's boring grey suit. He gives them his best shit-eating grin because wow, he could not be less interested in what any of them think about him.

Chris is still smiling though, glancing over every once in a while and sharing tidbits of information, name-dropping people who Dean has absolutely no frame of reference for. He nods and fakes being impressed because editorial reporter Rob Halford would most definitely be impressed by every poorly-concealed boast. Sam probably would've done research. Dean's relying on his personality and charm. It's working on Chris, anyway, because he's pretty sure they're blushing under their perfect make-up.

Madame's office is about what he'd expected. Overly-designed, nowhere to comfortably sit except the monster leather chair behind the desk full of sketches and ledgers. There are blown up sketches on the wall, incomprehensible pieces of clothing that he can only imagine ended up going down a runway in Paris or New York. He only gets a few seconds to look around, though, because Chris crowds in close behind him and whispers in his ear, "This is where the magic happened."

The warm air against his ear is an automatic turn-on, and Dean half-turns to see Chris, so close, the air between them expectant. Chris half-turns in a classic move that Dean knows too well – from the other side. He's pulled that move on many women, and seeing it from this side, it's obvious why it works. He's drawn in to Chris by instinct, something so appealing about being looked at that way, like he's the key to everything Chris might want.

He lets himself lean, follows the instinct of his body until they're a breath apart, and Dean's left wondering if Chris is going to meet him for a kiss; in his world, the "man" would always take that last step. Women would only go so far – if you meant it, you had to be the one to take it to liplock. 

Chris is staring at Dean's lips, so that is good, but there's something else going on, he thinks, because they're frozen, not making the final move, and Dean's suddenly doubting himself – maybe that isn't what they wanted and Dean is being pushy, and –

"You're really beautiful," Chris whispers, still staring down at Dean's lips.

Dean smirks. He's been called beautiful before, but he's still not sure what adjectives he should be using here, so he brushes it off. "You're not so bad yourself."

Something about that makes Chris's eyes dart up to meet Dean's; looking for sincerity, maybe? Dean finishes his lean, pushing into Chris's space to get to that first kiss, to let his lips do the talking for him.

Chris's eyes flutter closed and then it's on – the kiss is sweet for about half a second before Chris is grabbing at him, pushing his suit jacket out of the way to put their hands on Dean's chest, and Dean pushes into it, settling his hands on Chris's hips. 

Dean's never been nervous about getting a little action on the job, but his mind keeps racing, trying to determine if Chris is a handsome woman or beautiful man, knowing that they're probably both or neither, but the thing that's got him sweating under the cheap suit is that he's never been with anyone with a dick before, and there's no real way to tell what kind of equipment Chris is sporting under their slinky black dress. 

The kissing is good, though, so Dean shoves that to the back of his mind and just muscles his way through. He'll figure it out. He moves his hands up Chris's body, over their ribs, dragging their dress up and revealing thigh highs and garters. Yessssss, Dean's happy with this state of affairs, and he drops his hands to Chris's thighs, feeling the silky material under his skin. "Sexy," he says, low, and Chris laughs and kisses him again. 

The dress fell back on top of his hands, so Dean goes back to pushing it up, letting Chris's soft whimpers tell him this is good so far. They're doing the same to him, hands on his fly, unzipping him in a hurry, which is never a bad thing.

Silky panties are his reward for following the trail of the garters, and Dean takes a moment to firmly grip Chris's ass – and appreciate the way they groan into his mouth and push forward a little, looking for something, maybe a little friction. 

The anticipation is killing him, so Dean slides his hands around Chris's hips to see what he's dealing with. A fully hard dick is nestled in the panties, the tip leaking a growing wet spot in the silk.

Dean's mind starts going a million miles an hour. He has a dick, he knows what dicks like, he just has to think, but that's almost impossible as Chris has gotten their hand down Dean's pants and is giving him a firm handjob that Dean's hips can't help thrusting up into.

A lightning strike of a thought comes to him, from when Sam tried to teach him chess, back when he was fourteen and Sam was ten. Dean didn't really want to play, so he just copied every move Sam made. It annoyed Sam at the time, but he thinks it might be his saving grace, here. He wraps his hand around Chris's dick and pumps it firmly a few times. 

They're still kissing, which says a hell of a lot about Chris's coordination, and Dean focuses on that, lets his body follow Chris's lead and makes his mind do the part of this it already knows. 

Chris's head falls back at one point, and Dean leans in to kiss their neck, and that earns him a full body shiver. He smirks. Not that he makes a habit of judging his performance mid-show, but if this keeps going the way it's going, it's definitely going to be at least an eight. 

Chris shifts on a downstroke, pushing his hand deeper into Dean's pants to palm his balls. Dean can't help his own groan of pleasure at that, and it takes a minute or so to remember he's playing follow-the-leader and he should try Chris's trick out too. He's not really coordinated enough to do it by feel, though, so he rests his forehead on Chris's shoulder and looks down between their bodies, shoving the dress up a little so he can get a full view of their panties. 

The view is stunning. The panties are stretched around his hand and Chris's dick, and watches himself stroke Chris while watching Chris's hand in his own pants in his peripheral vision. Before he can really get it together to go for Chris's balls, Chris goes one step further, snaking two fingers behind Dean's balls and pressing on his taint. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, moaning and then breathing hard. He's always had a thing for that, Shannon discovered it months ago, and he has to concentrate not to lose his momentum on Chris's handjob. 

He feels Chris twitch though, like maybe they liked that, Dean's response, and those two fingers keep up a constant pressure, and Dean gets lost in the sensation, his own hand slowing down and loosening.

"Oh, you like that," Chris rumbles in Dean's ear, and yeah, Dean really, _really_ does, so he hums out an affirmative. Chris pushes one finger even further back, pressing against his hole, and asks, "Want me to fuck you, Rob?" 

Dean's trained himself to relax at the first pressure on his asshole. Months of Shannon's dildos and buttplugs have made it an instinct, so he relaxes and Chris's finger presses right in, earning a whispered "fuck" from Chris. Dean's thinking the same thing – this has definitely gone somewhere he wasn't expecting, and while he's weirdly on stronger footing with this whole encounter now, getting fucked not something he's considered before. 

"I don't have anything with me," Chris says regretfully, and while Dean has condoms in his wallet, he doesn't have any lube, and if he wants to be able to walk out of here without limping, he knows that's key. "Me neither," Dean admits. 

"Too bad," Chris says, and Dean finally lifts his head up, meeting their eyes and matching their grin. He leans forward and kisses them again, smiling because this is fun as hell and completely unexpected. Chris meets him halfway and brings their unoccupied hand up to Dean's face. "Hey, I've got an idea."

Chris pulls their hand out of Dean's pants, drops to their knees and pulls Dean's pants and boxers down. Dean's dick gives an interested twitch at having a mouth at its level, but Chris pops back up before a blowjob becomes a serious possibility. They grab Dean's thighs and press his legs together. "Here," they say, pulling their dress off over their head and kicking off their heels. Dean's not sure where this is going, but when Chris lines their dick up just under Dean's balls and presses into the closed space of his thighs, Dean gets it.

It takes a minute to get the logistics right. Chris backs Dean up against the wall, Dean presses his thighs together tightly, Chris goes up onto the balls of their feet to press their dick into Dean's taint, the very head of their dick pressing against Dean's asshole. After a few misfires, they find the groove, and they're both breathing hard in the space of a couple minutes. "Fuck," Chris says on repeat. "Fuck, why are you so hot?" 

Dean's inclined to think it's the situation; he's fairly certain getting not-quite-fucked against the wall by a person in a dress with a dick was something he would've laughed at before. "You're hot," he says instead, because Chris is, and this is, and shit, it's opened up a whole new world of possibilities for him, which is fucking _amazing_. Chris laughs and speeds up, and gets a hand around Dean's dick, and it's not long before they're both coming pretty hard, making a hell of a mess.

There's nothing to clean up with in the office, and Dean does his best to investigate while they're looking, but he's just too distracted to do a good job. He'll have to find a way to come back. Maybe he'll sneak in tonight, after he goes to the archdiocese. "Here," Dean says finally, after making his way back to the pile of clothes on the floor. "We can use these." He offers his boxers to Chris, who wipes their stomach sheepishly before handing them back and slinking themself back into their little black dress.

Dean bends his legs to get at himself, wishing to hell he had something better to clean up with. He really wants a shower. He debates bringing the boxers with him, but there is absolutely no way to get them out of there without looking ridiculous, so he dumps them in the trash and hopes there aren't any witches around looking for bodily fluids.

Chris leads him back out to reception, blushing when the receptionist raises an eyebrow at them. "Oh, wait," she says to Dean, though, and he tries not to look surprised when he turns around. He's never had a woman shut him down the way this one did, so he can't imagine what she might want.

"Johann cancelled," she says, "so Mr. Maxwell has a free hour tomorrow morning at eleven." She hands him his fake business card with a time written on the back. "That's some impressive luck you've got there," she says with a wink. 

"Thanks," he says, grinning at her and then Chris. The day is looking up.

~~~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** Crowley  
>  **Chapter notes: WARNING:** Major character death (temporary) (Sam Winchester). I promise it's only temporary! Other tidbits of note, possibly as warnings for squicks or triggers: gunfight, senseless violence.

~~~

  
_Chicago, Illinois, December 2006_

Dean changes into his priest get-up in the bathroom of a McDonald's. The pimply-faced kid wiping down tables in the back does a double-take when he comes out, but he just smiles and keeps on walking.

When he gets to the archdiocese, everything is in an uproar. A very calm, zen-like uproar, but still, unsettled enough that an extra priest wandering around doesn't seem to upset anything. He wanders through the offices without anyone questioning him, and when he finds the archbishop's office, it only takes a moment for the hallways to clear enough for him to let himself in.

He's not sure what he's looking for. Suicide cases are always the worst, because everyone has a theory about why the person kicked it and if it really is supernatural – and he has a feeling this one is, his spidey-sense is tingling something fierce – then there's not going to be any real reason for it, no note, no depression and tearful moments with loved ones, giving them inexplicable mementos.

The archbishop's desk is huge. Gargantuan. A desk not even Sam would look at home at. It's presidential looking, and the non-cluttered desktop tells Dean that the bishop didn't do much actual work there. There's a sitting room off to the side that looks more lived in, so he looks for clues in there. 

There room itself is just as sterile, but something about the light or the furniture arrangement or whatever makes it feel more comfortable, and Dean starts looking around for places the padre might have put some personal items. There's another desk in here, the kind with a flip down top, and as soon as Dean pulls it down, he knows he's hit the jackpot. 

He opens the shallow drawers, knowing there's space behind them, little hidey-holes for the things that you don't want any nosy person to find, but aren't completely unfathomable that someone with some time and inclination would be able to track down. Dean is always amused at the way the human brain works; it's not like people are thinking about what'll happen after they die, usually, just that they don't want their mom or girlfriend or cleaning lady finding their secret stash. And yeah, there'd be no reason to suspect an archbishop would hide anything away, except Dean's pretty sure there is. 

What he's not expecting, though, is a button. He thought there'd be letters or pictures or a diary maybe, _The Secret Life of Archbishop Carlisle_. A button could be good or bad; it could be an emergency, call-for-help type button, which would be really bad news if Dean pushed it. He doesn't think it is, though, those type of buttons are easier to access, hidden under desks or counters, not behind a fake drawer in a writing desk. He figures it's probably worth the risk and pushes the button, ready to run if necessary. 

It's totally not necessary, because the sound of air escaping and the wall shifting the desk toward him a few inches tells him it's a secret _room_ he should've been looking for, not just a secret compartment.

When he gets in the room, the only thing he can think is _Jackpot!_ It's a workshop/library combo, compendiums on demons and an altar-like area with all the telltale signs of witchcraft. A noise from the anteroom gets his attention and he turns around, looking for any way to close the door behind him. He grabs onto the shelf and yanks, pulling the door closed until he hears the lock mechanism click back into place. 

He can hear muffled voices, now, so he stays away from the door, silently cataloging the books. There's a bunch he's seen in Sam's library and a few he hasn't, and he wonders if he can smuggle them out. Better they go to someone who can use them properly than leave them to be discovered by an unwitting novice. There's way too many for him to walk out with today, so they'll probably have to come back some night after dark to liberate them.

He waits for a good half hour after the voices die down to start looking for the way out. He tries the obvious – pushing on the shelves, looking for some kind of handle or knob – but no dice. It doesn't even occur to him to start worrying until he's pulled all the books off the shelves in search of another button with no success. 

He pulls out his cell, unsurprised to see he doesn't have signal. He wouldn't be surprised if the room was lead-lined – all signs point to uber-paranoid priest. He tries to remember if he let Sam know he was working a case. He doesn't think so, which means Sam might not come looking for him right away. He'll be missed tonight, if he doesn't go to work, but he's not sure Shannon would call Sam until he'd missed a couple of shifts, and it's Sam that'll be able to track him down. If Shannon calls Sam after two days, and Sam looks around for a case Dean might be working, that's another day… He firmly sets aside the panic that's trying to well up. For one, there's got to be a way out, and he'll just have to pull the place apart and find it. For two, he can make three days without food or water if he has to. For three… there's a jug of something that looks like water on the altar. With water, he can easily make it a week. 

He goes over to the altar, which looks more like a work table at the moment, though he can see the black shimmery altar cloth peeking out underneath the heavy duty blue work cloth. There's a large chalice, every spice, herb, and other spell ingredient you can imagine, if you think about the hippie pretend witches that like to literally cook up their spells, and then, mixed in with the rosemary and thyme, _real_ ingredients. Blood and feathers and teeth and pickled bits of things he doesn't want to look at too closely. It's weird to see the two in the same space; usually people don't mix them, and he's not sure if the archbishop was too stupid to tell the difference between the real stuff and the bullshit or if he was just desperate enough to try everything. There's a whole gallon of holy water, though, so Dean's unease about possibly being stuck in here for a couple days ratchets back down a couple notches.

Tucked into the far corner of the room is a chair with good reading light and a small end table piled with well-thumbed books. Dean's got all day, and he's not feeling like tearing apart the bookshelves just yet, so he sits down and looks at the pile of books that the monsignor'd been reading most recently.

A couple of fiction works, both stories of demon deals, and the lyrics to _Devil Went Down to Georgia_ printed out in a folder along with a bunch of Robert Johnson blues, and Dean rolls his eyes. A demon deal. He'd always wondered about Robert Johnson, but he hadn't really thought demon deals were for real. Who sells their eternal soul, if they believe they've got one? 

And to become an archbishop? What kind of idiot makes a demon deal for power in the Catholic church? Then again, the Catholics have some of the weirdest shit buried in their history and in the basements of their churches. They also have the centuries of ritual that can really be useful in his line of work. The new age UU churches aren't even really consecrated ground, at least when you're looking for protection against monsters. 

Dean sighs. At least he was looking into ways to break the deal. Obviously he didn't find anything, but there are several books marked with placeholders, and the least tattered of the markers are all on beasts of hell, black dogs, and hellhounds. 

He's a little annoyed that he might not get out of here in time for his miraculous meeting with the Metrix CEO tomorrow. Waste of perfectly decent bit of good luck. He's pretty sure he knows what he's going to hear, though, and what he'll find when he traces the archbishop's career in the church. Meteoric rise about ten years ago, paranoia and craziness about ten days ago. He wonders if there's anyone else he should be on the lookout for. There's no way to know, really, though the coincidence of two Chicago people biting it in the same week is a connection he's not willing to dismiss.

He scopes out the bookshelves more thoroughly, looking for hidden panels, uneven woodwork, anything. He's exhausted by the time he finishes with absolutely no luck, and sits down in the chair to rest for just a little bit.

~~~

It's the air current that wakes Dean up. The air'd been still last night, making the sweat sticking to him after his search all the more uncomfortable. He opens his eyes just in time to see Sam in a priest get-up throw open the door to the secret room.

"Oh, thank god," Sam says. Dean would've beat him to it, but he's still groggy. "What the hell are you doing here, Dean?"

Dean could ask Sam that question, and will, later, but for now, he just wants to get out of here, and to try and make that appointment if he can. He glances down at his watch to see that he's two hours late and sighs heavily. "Damn it."

"You're welcome," Sam says, stepping into the room a little further and taking a look around. He sees the stack of books Dean'd set aside for him and his eyes grow huge. "Holy shit, Dean, I've never even seen some of these books! I wasn't sure _Ars Demonica_ even existed!"

Dean runs his hands through his hair, nodding. "Yeah, thought you might like those. Have to figure out how we're going to smuggle them out. Thanks for the rescue, by the way."

Sam just grins at him, one brief glance away from the spines of the books he's lovingly caressing. "You're welcome. There's really no way out of here?"

Dean shrugs. "Not that I could find, though it probably would've taken me another day or two to test out all my theories."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Good thing I showed up."

"I'm not complaining," Dean says. "Missed my interview at Metrix, though, so we're going to have to – "

"No you didn't, _Rob_ ," he says. "Apparently you weren't very memorable, because when I walked up to the secretary at Metrix to ask her if she'd seen you, she told me that I was way too eager, showing up an hour and a half early, and told me to take a seat to wait."

"Wow," Dean says. "That's… so weird. Everything about that place is weird. I thought for sure I wasn't going to get an appointment at all – that secretary was hard as nails –"

"That secretary was a lesbian, Dean."

"Anyway, just as I was about to leave, some guy cancelled an appointment and she gave it to me." Something about this is really rubbing Dean the wrong way, and not just about the case, which, while isn't likely something they can do anything about. Idiots selling their souls to demons and getting what's coming to them? Not really a case. Sam will probably feel differently, but right now, with what he's got, it's not really something he can do anything about. 

The thing is all the unbelievable luck surrounding this case. Getting an appointment with the impossible-to-get-an-appointment-for CEO? Finding the archbishop's secret demon-research batcave? Sam coming after him in less than 24 hours missing? "How did you know I was in trouble?" Dean asks, because at least that he can get an answer to.

"You hadn't been in to work. Shannon called to make sure you were all right." Sam sighs and closes the book he was skimming and sets it back on the pile. "Obviously it was a case, so I just had to figure out what it was and where you would've gone. Do you even want to hear what Maxwell told me?"

"Overnight success about ten years ago, seeing hallucinations for the last week or two?"

"Dogs," Sam confirms. "Black dogs."

"Don't think so," Dean says, grabbing the book on the top of the pile stacked next to the chair, flipping it open to the bookmark, and handing it to Sam. "Hellhounds."

"Oh, damn," Sam says, flipping through a few pages. "But… why?"

Dean turns to look at Sam – he can't believe Sam hasn't pieced this together yet. It's completely obvious. "They made demon deals. Ten years of success for their soul?"

Sam makes the "what, really?" face and Dean throws up his hands. "Crossroads, demon deals, this is all over the early blues music, you never listened to it?"

Sam shrugs and Dean rolls his eyes. Of course Sam never listened to a good tune in his life if Dean didn't force him. "Hellhounds come to collect the souls after."

"Okay," Sam says, though he sounds dubious. "Anyway, I snuck into Madame's office afterwards, and I found this." He hands Dean a photo, a wholesome looking Midwest version of Madame, a younger but very much pious looking archbishop, two other people that Dean doesn't recognize, and… "Is that…?"

"Shannon, yeah," Sam says. "It's at the bar."

Now that Dean looks, he can see the ugly beer map of the U.S. in the background, and he realizes it is the bar. A little less hipster than it is today, but still the same bar, the well-worn teak as familiar to him as Baby's front seat.

"Damn."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Do you want me to come with to question Shannon?"

Dean knows he should have Sam there; he needs someone who can be objective, which he's not entirely sure he can do with her. "Not the first time," Dean says. "If she's in trouble, I want to give her the chance to own up to it in private."

Sam nods. "Fair enough. I'll come to the bar, though. Hang out, just in case things get hairy."

"Yeah, all right," Dean says, and heads out to find some boxes and cart. There's no way they're leaving all this crap in here for some unwitting junior priest to find.

~~~

The drive back to their place isn't on a highway, but Dean tries to sink into road hypnosis a little anyway so he can get his head on straight about what to do with Shannon.

He's not in love with Shannon, but he likes her, and he respected her, up until the photo. He's trying not to be judgmental, but making a demon deal is just stupid. He can't imagine any reason you would ever do that, and what had she gotten out of it? The bar? Come on, there are much less dangerous ways to get a bar.

After a couple of miles that don't actually make Dean feel any better, Dean pulls into the garage, leaving the boxes of crap in the backseat for now, and takes a shower that feels heavenly after sitting in his own sweat for hours.

Shannon's not in the bar when he gets in, and a few questions to the barbacks makes it clear she hasn't been in all day. He leaves Sam at the bar and makes his way to the stairs at the back that lead up to her apartment. If she's got company, she'll be pissed, but if she's about to be eaten by hellhounds, well. He's probably her best bet.

He knocks twice but she doesn't answer. After the third time, he figures she's just not going to answer, and decides to pick the lock. He'd meant to tell her she really needed to get a deadbolt, but never quite got around to it. It always sounded too close to the wrong kind of concern, and he didn't want Shannon to dump him from her roster because she thought he was growing some kind of relationship wish.

Halfway through picking the door, it swings open, and there's a shotgun pointed at his head. He stands up straight, shifting so it's pointed somewhere less likely to kill him immediately, though it'd probably kill him to get gutshot, too, just slower. "Hey, Shannon," he says, putting on his best shit-eating grin. "Heard you haven't been downstairs today."

She sticks her head out the door, looking both ways before yanking him in by the collar and shutting and locking the door behind them. "What do you want, Winchester?"

Dean takes a deep breath, breathing it out in a long sigh. "I know about your deal."

Her eyes go wide and she brings the shotgun back up, pointed at his head again. "Get out."

"Listen," Dean says, "I can help you. I'm not really some kind of security consultant. I'm a hunter. I hunt demons and hellhounds and all those sons of bitches."

She lowers the gun just a little, but it's confusion on her face. "What are you talking about, hellhounds?"

Now it's Dean's turn to look confused; the other two took nosedives after their encounters with the hellhounds, and now Shannon doesn't even know what they are? "Maybe you should tell me a little more about your deal," he says, hoping this isn't going somewhere truly horrible.

"How much do you know?"

Dean produces the photo and lays it on the table between them. She sinks down into a chair and _finally_ sets the shotgun down. "Yeah, that's Mandy, Phil, Jason, and me. And the… guy. What did you say he was? A demon? Are you serious?"

Dean squinches his face up in disbelief. Who exactly did she think she'd be trading for her soul? "Crossroads demon, yeah. Who's who?" She points to one of the guys, in a very nice suit, and says, "He was the guy making deals. Mandy, Phil, and that's my ex, Jason."

Dean nods slowly. "Okay. So, Mandy became a fashion designer, Phil, the archbishop – that's just nuts, he's not even in a priest get-up!"

"He was taking Holy Orders the next day," she says. "We were celebrating."

Hell of a way to celebrate, he thinks. "And what did you get out of the deal?"

Her smile turns bitter, and then drops off her face entirely. "Jason. He had MS. It wasn't bad yet – he'd only had two seizures, about six months apart – but I'd researched what MS did to you, how your body deteriorated, and… I loved him. I wanted to be with him forever. Or at least for the next ten years, with him healthy."

Dean swallows his first response. It's not like there isn't someone he'd do anything for. "And where is Jason?" Dean asks instead.

"Las Vegas." She laughs, low and rueful. "When he went back to the docs and they told him that he wasn't in remission, that he seems to have spontaneously healed? He decided he had the kind of luck you don't waste on a bar and a wife. He left me the bar, which I suppose was the better end of the deal. He makes a living at poker, I hear."

Her voice is so flat he can't help feeling sorry for her, even though clearly the hurt of the situation is mostly buried. 

"You see why I'm not really interested in that type of relationship anymore."

Dean smiles, fake as hell, and he knows Shannon can see it too. She waves him off. "Whatever, my decision, right? I hadn't really thought about what it would be like when he came back to collect, though."

"What?" Dean says, shooting up off the stool. "He's here? The demon?"

"Well, yeah," Shannon says. "Sitting in the damn bar, waiting for me to show my face. Probably making deals with another crop of people while he's waiting."

"Sammy," Dean says, grabbing her shotgun and taking two quick steps for the door. "Stay here," he says, running full tilt for the bar downstairs.

The scene that greets him is so at odds with what he expected to find that he can't actually process it at first. "Drop the gun!" the first masked gunman says as Dean skids into the room. He gets a punch to the face and another guy in a mask takes Shannon's shotgun right out of his hands. _Damn it._

Dean puts his hand up to his nose, not because he's bleeding but because it gives him the ability to look around and figure out what the hell is going on. There are eight masked dudes in here, and the customers in the booths are all cowering down as low as they can go, looking scared. Sam's off his barstool, relaxed and comfortable with his hands up, ready to make a move if something presents itself. The demon is standing next to him, in his well-cut suit and smarmy smile, and Dean wonders if maybe he'd been trying to talk Sam into a deal. He doesn't think Sam would be stupid enough to fall for something like that, but the guy is stepping forward like the idiot in all these scenarios that tries to reason with masked gunmen and eventually gets someone shot. 

"Gents, let's take it easy now. How about you let us know what you're after, we give it to you, and you head out on your merry way?"

It's not that Dean doesn't appreciate the kind of balls it takes to speak up in this kind of situation, but this slimy asshole can't die from their bullets, and he is standing way too close to Sam for Dean to let that pass.

"He's right," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, because of _course_ that's the tack Sam takes here. Sometimes Dean would really like to kick his little brother in the teeth. 

"Shut up!" screams the little guy at the front of the pack. "When we want you to talk, we'll _tell_ you to talk. Get over there."

He gestures with his gun at an empty table, and Dean hangs back, making sure he can deflect their attention away from Sam, but shorty seems to have height issues, because he jumps at Sam, which of course makes Sam jump back, though he's basically wearing his confused bitchface. "Not such a big man now," the guy says, brandishing the gun at Sam, and Dean can feel the fear rise up in that moment because this is a dumbshit that has never held a gun in his life, and he is casually waving it at his brother, and at least half of the other assholes are nervously pointing their guns at Sam, like _Sam_ did something to provoke the guy, and hell no, nothing is going to happen to his little brother, not on his watch.

"Hey fellas, why don't you pick on someone your own size," Dean says, but the guy in the suit puts a hand on his arm, holding him back from really grabbing their attention. He can't slip it, either, because suit-guy has demon strength, and the last thing Dean needs to do is give that away to the unstable douchebags trying to…

Trying to what? What are they here for? There are a hell of a lot of them to just rob the place, and they haven't made a move for either cash register, or to shake down the patrons. Before Dean can puzzle it out though, little guy screams something at Sam, and Sam flinches back, still wearing his confused bitchface, and the gun goes off – a sonic boom in this place, it's so loud. 

Time slows down as Dean watches every one of the masked men turn on Sam and start firing, and he can see every emotion cross Sam's face as he falls, surprise, pain, anger, realization. He hits the floor hard, eyes glassy, and the silence after the noise of the shootout is deafening.

He only barely registers the masked men leaving, or the fact that he's wrenched his arm out of the demon's steely grip with such force that he's probably broken something. He has one destination in mind, and his brother's side, and there is nothing that will keep him from it.

"Sammy!"

~~~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** crossroad deals, demon deals, Castiel  
>  **Chapter notes:** Basically, what the tags say. Also - end of temporary death for Sam Winchester!

_Chicago, Illinois, December 2006_

Dean is numb. It is impossible to understand, Sam was there, he was _right there_ and now he's gone. His body is slack, and covered in blood, which Dean is of course covered in, too, because he's holding Sam in his arms and he thinks he might be screaming a little. Or that might be in his head. He can't process, this cannot possibly be happening, it's nonsensical. There was a demon right there, if anything was going to go sideways it was…

Dean turns to look at the demon in the suit. "You."

"Crowley, at your service."

"You make deals?"

Crowley inclines his head. "I do. Let me guess," he says, waving a hand at Sam like he couldn't care less. "You want me to bring him back."

"Exactly."

Crowley shrugs one shoulder up, still looking like he's trying to figure out if the deal is good enough for him. "You understand your part of the bargain?"

"Yes," Dean says. "My soul in ten years."

"Precisely." Crowley shifts a little, looking at them sideways. "What did you say your name was?"

Before Dean can open his mouth, the words "Dean Winchester," are said by a voice he doesn't recognize. The voice is deep and gravelly, and Dean doesn't like it much. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Still, he can't help looking up at the source of the words, a man in a suit and a trench coat with some serious bedhead and light behind his eyes that makes them glow.

"What?" he asks, because seriously today could not get any more fucked up. What _else_ could possibly go wrong?

"You will not make that deal."

That's it. Dean lays Sam down, pausing just a moment to rest his hand over Sam's in apology, and stands up. "I don't know who the hell you are but there is nothing on Heaven or Earth that could keep me from making that deal. That's my –"

"Your brother," Crowley says, and when Dean turns to look at him, he looks distinctly green. "And you're an angel," he says to the man in the trench coat.

"Dean Winchester," the man says again – Dean's brain absolutely _refuses_ to accept that he is an angel, though the tiny hairs on the back of his neck seem insistent that he is.

"Why do you care, whoever you are? What the hell does it matter to you?"

For half a second, the bravado holds, and despite the lightning and thunder that happens _inside the bar_ , Dean is still pissed, he is going to make this happen, because Sam cannot be dead. He can't. He cannot be dead while Dean is still alive. It's a mathematical impossibility. It goes against every law of the universe.

Then the angel leans forward, backlit by a flash of lightning, and Dean can see _wings_. Just a shadow of them, but open and huge and menacing. "I am Castiel," he says, the gravelly voice bringing up gooseflesh on Dean's arms. "I am the one who is to raise you from perdition."

"I don't understand." Dean's brain is at its absolute limit – and then, just to add one more layer of _what the fuck_ on top, someone behind him coughs, like they're interrupting something.

He whirls around to give the person a piece of his mind and sees the bar full of customers, most of them still in shock. His attention on them seems to attract the angel's attention, and a moment later, after another bout of indoor thunderstorm, the bar is empty except for him, Sam, Castiel, and Crowley.

"I will explain," Castiel says, "but you must not make the deal." 

"Bring him back," Dean says. 

"No," Castiel answers.

"Then I'm going to make the deal with Crowley here. Sam is coming back one way or another, so do it yourself or get out of the way."

"Dean," Castiel says, and he's not one for a lot of emotion, this guy, but Dean thinks that might be annoyance. Good. He's got to find some way to get under his skin. "I am from the future. My entire squadron was charged with raising you from perdition, and all of them died – every single angel except myself. All of my brothers and sisters, a trail of the dead leading through Hell, straight to the torture room of The Righteous Man, where you had broken the first seal of the apocalypse. Surely you understand how I cannot allow that to happen."

 _The Righteous Man? The apocalypse?_ What the hell is going on? And a platoon of angels, sent to raise him from Hell? How could that be? He's nobody – less than nobody without Sam. "You won't stop me from making this deal while Sam is dead. I don't give a rat's ass about the future or your entire family tree. My brother is dead and I'm going to do whatever I have to do to bring him back."

"Ahem." Crowley's polite interruption makes Dean spin around to face him. He still looks pretty green, which is not a point in Dean's favor. "Castiel," Crowley says, doing some sort of half-bow, a strange gesture of respect, Dean thinks. "I can personally guarantee that none of my crossroads demons will take that deal."

"Excuse me?!" Dean screeches, because what kind of crossroads demon won't take his deal? "Yes you will, because I am not staying on this god-forsaken planet one minute longer without my brother. So get over here and give me the papers to sign."

"Not a chance, Dean Winchester," Crowley sneers at him. "I know who you are, and who Sam is. I'm not making that deal."

"Thank you, Crowley," Castiel says, though it seems to pain him to do it.

"However, that doesn't mean _no one_ will take the deal," Crowley says. "I hear Lilith would be _thrilled_ to get her hands on Dean Winchester's soul."

"No," Castiel says, advancing on Crowley. "She must not."

"Well," Crowley says, and Dean just keeps bouncing back and forth between them like he's at a tennis match. He doesn't really know what's going on here, but he's pretty sure it's going to end up in his favor. "Perhaps you best resurrect the boy yourself then, before Dean here sells his soul for the bargain basement price of his brother plus ten years. If Lilith gives him that long – you know how impatient she is."

The room starts to brighten with a light so bright Dean has to put his arm up to block it. "How dare you threaten such a thing. I will smite you where you stand."

The high-pitched buzzing sound that accompanied the light starts to back off, and so does the light, and when Dean looks up, Crowley is gone, and Sam is still dead on the floor. "You better fix him," Dean says, "Or I will summon Lilith and get her to give me the deal, like Crowley says."

"I won't allow you to," Castiel says, taking a threatening step in Dean's direction.

"Oh, and you're going to watch me every second for the rest of my life?" Dean asks. "Because that's what you're going to have to do." He can see something approximating doubt in Castiel's features, and he presses his advantage. "Oh, and that Righteous Man bullshit, whatever that is? I won't do it. You don't bring Sam back, I won't do whatever it is you went to Hell to rescue me for."

It's small, but it's there. A frown of annoyance. Just a slight tightening of the eyes and mouth. Dean's got him by the short and curlies, he can tell. "Matter of fact, you don't bring Sam back, I'll just kill myself. That sends me to Hell anyway, doesn't it? So you'd have to rescue me all over again."

"You wouldn't dare," Castiel threatens, but Dean is so far beyond daring, it's not even a question. He digs Sam's silver knife out of his pocket and flips it open, holding it up to his neck.

"Try me."

Castiel stops his forward motion, eyes on the knife. He looks down at Sam for a brief moment, and then brings his eyes back to meet Dean's. "You care for your brother."

It's a little more than that – Sammy is Dean's _life_. Without him, there's no reason for Dean to even exist. There's no way to describe what Sam is to the angel, though, so Dean just nods his head.

"I care for my brothers and sisters as well," Castiel says, taking a step closer. Dean raises his chin, presses the knife in a little harder. 

Castiel puts his hands up. "I just meant that I comprehend the sentiment." He leans down and presses two fingers to Sam's forehead, and suddenly Sam is sucking in breath and coughing, flailing and looking around wildly. Dean crushes him close, all the emotions he'd carefully held at bay through the last few minutes leaking out of him as he feels Sam struggling in his grip.

"Shh, Sammy, calm down, it's okay. It's okay." Sam quiets after a long moment and when Dean looks up to say thank you to the angel, he's gone. "Well, thanks anyway, Castiel," Dean mumbles. He can't believe angels are real. Hell, he still wouldn't believe it except Sam is here, breathing like he isn't riddled with bullet holes. Dean does a quick visual inspection of Sam's skin, and it looks smooth and whole. 

"Dean?" Sam croaks.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says, letting go of the death grip he has on his brother long enough for Sam to lift himself out of Dean's arms. He knocks Dean's wrist on the way and a bolt of pain goes up his arm. Shit, he'd forgotten he fucked up his arm trying to get out of Crowley's grip.

"Ow," he says, bringing his right arm across to grab his left and pull it in tight to his body. "Fuck."

"What happened?" Sam asks, turning around to inspect Dean's arm, like he's not the one that just got shot full of lead.

"Think I fucked it up, trying to get away from Crowley."

"Crowley?" Sam asks. "The guy from the picture with Shannon?"

"Yeah," Dean says, batting Sam's hands away. "He's the crossroads demon."

"Shit," Sam says. "I just started talking to him when those douchebags rolled in. Where the hell is everybody?"

Dean sighs. They need to get out of here. He doesn't know what the angel did with everyone, but they're covered in blood and not fit for going anywhere but home to clean up. "Come on, let's get out of here. I'll explain in the car."

~~~

  
Sam gets to shower first, mostly because he's the bloodiest, but also because Dean knows it's going to take him a while to peel out of his shirts with his arm fucked up the way it is. The jacket and flannel are easy enough, but the henley takes some maneuvering and he's red-faced and sweating by the time he gets down to his t-shirt. 

Sam takes one look at him and shakes his head, coming at him with clothing shears, and cuts his t-shirt into pieces. Dean's just thankful he didn't wear the AC/DC shirt he'd originally planned on. "Okay, sit down," Sam says, giving him a gentle shove toward the bed. He sits down next to Dean and inspects his arm, and Dean does his best not to shout obscenities at him.

"Dislocated," Sam declares, and kneels up behind him on the bed. "On the count of three." Dean knows that trick, so he breathes on one, knowing Sam's going to go on two, like that's some kind of surprise, but then Sam goes on one and shit, _ow_ , owwwwwwwww, that shit _hurts_.

"Damn it," Dean says, springing off the bed and pacing, cradling his arm and breathing deep to let the pain settle down. 

"Well, now you're going to have a bum shoulder, just like Dad."

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam'd had to learn how to set dislocated shoulders in high school because the first time Dad got one, Dean'd been mauled, and didn't have the strength to do it. The second time, he'd been down with the flu, and by the third time, Sam had it down, so Dean didn't want to fuck it up. Eventually he had to learn too – when Sam went away to college – but Sam's still better at it than him. And Dad's shoulder was never the same after that first time. He threw it out at least once every three or four months. Dean is not looking forward to that.

"All right, talk to me, distract yourself," Sam says. "Crowley is a crossroads demon. Castiel… angel, really?"

"Big bag of dicks, more like," Dean grumbles. "But he brought you back so he doesn't get _automatically_ stabbed if I ever see him again. Not like Crowley, that welsher."

"You said he changed his mind after he found out who you were, right?" Sam says, his eyes following Dean as he paces.

"Yeah. No idea what that was all about," Dean says. "But I was a little preoccupied. You were _dead_." Dean stops and meets Sam's eyes, holds them. "You don't remember anything?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nope. I remember getting hit by the bullets – it was surreal, man. And then I remember falling, but I don't even remember hitting the floor."

"Show me," Dean says, finally releasing his sore arm. Sam rolls his eyes, but they're soft when he lifts his shirt, letting Dean's eyes roam over his skin. He doesn't touch – that'd be weird, he knows, but part of him wants that tactile sensation, just to be sure. He keeps his hands to himself. 

"You should shower," Sam says, and Dean nods, keeping his eyes on Sam's skin until he pulls his shirt back down. 

"C'mon, Dean," Sam says, getting up and herding Dean toward the bathroom. "You need to shower, man. Heat'll loosen up that shoulder, too."

~~~

Sam stands just outside the bathroom as Dean showers, a habit they developed early on when one of them was hurt. When Sam was young, maybe eleven, Dean'd gotten thrown against a wall by a poltergeist and gotten his first concussion. It sucked, but mostly he was dizzy all the time, and when he finally felt well enough to shower, Sam'd insisted he keep talking the whole time, while Sam sat in the doorway, making sure Dean was okay.

"So why would an angel care if I was dead?" Sam asks. Dean swallows. He'd told Sam as much as he remembered, not realizing the kind of epic bitchface he would get from Sam when he admitted to trying to make a deal.

"He didn't. He just didn't want me to make a deal." And that just confirms that Castiel is a dick, really, because all he would've had to do was show up five minutes earlier and smite all the fucking gunmen so Sam didn't die in the first place.

"Oh," Sam says, and Dean grimaces at the sound of his voice. For such a gargantuan person, Sam could make himself sound very small.

"That reminds me," Dean says. "There was some demon named Lilith that Crowley said would take my deal. I think he was trying to convince Castiel to save you, though I can't really figure out why."

"Best not dwell on the motivations of demons," Sam says. "Though I wonder why Crowley was back at Shannon's bar, if he wasn't there to collect her. I mean, he probably knows right where she lives, right? Why hang out at the bar?"

Dean has no clue, but that reminds him of another stray thought from the shitshow in the bar. "What was he talking to you about? Trying to get you to make a deal? Maybe he was trying to rack up more customers."

"I'd only introduced myself when those assholes came in. I was going to interview him, I'd assumed he was another victim, not the demon they all made their deals with."

"Oh, yeah, that reminds me," Dean says. "Shannon sold her soul for the other dude in that picture. It's her ex. He had MS, and left her as soon as he was cured."

"Ouch."

"Yeah," Dean says. And knowing how quickly he jumped on the idea of a deal when Sam died, he's feeling a little less judgmental about her life choices.

"So, Crowley will probably be back," Sam says. "If he hasn't collected on Shannon yet."

It hits him like a ton of a bricks – he left Shannon alone in her apartment, holy shit, he's such an asshole.

"Crap, we have to go back. I can't believe I forgot about Shannon. Sammy, what if –"

"Don't," Sam says, creaking the door open further to offer a towel. "Let's just go. Maybe she's okay."

~~~

The bar is dark and quiet – Dean'd shut the lights off and locked the doors on his way out, and apparently no one's come back. He spares a thought for Paul, Marcie, Juan, and the rest of the staff that was here when the gunmen came in. He hopes they're okay. They go around back and Dean runs up the stairs when he sees that Shannon's apartment is dark, too. "Shit shit shit!"

He pounds on the door, yelling, "Shannon! It's Dean! Shannon, are you in there?"

He's ready to break down the door, but Sam pushes his way in front, and tries the door first. It's locked, but in two seconds flat, he's got his picks out and the door's open, and Sam's pushing his way in. "Shannon? It's Sam and Dean. You here?"

They edge into the apartment, closing the door and locking it behind them, turning on lights as they clear each room. "Shannon?" Dean calls in her bedroom, but there's no answer. It isn't until he hears Sam's sharp, "Dean!" from the living room that he realizes he's _expecting_ her to be gone. 

She's curled up behind the couch, rocking, not registering anything. "Go get blankets and tea and whatever," Dean says, and Sam's gone without complaint, for once. He turns back to Shannon, hoping he can get through to her. "Shan," he says, quietly, reaching his arm out slowly. She jumps when he touches her arm, and her eyes focus and lock on his face.

"Dean?" she asks, not waiting for his answer before throwing herself at him. "Dean, oh my god! I thought you were dead, I heard the gunshots, and then you didn't come back, I couldn't –"

She starts sobbing in his ear and he shushes her, rubbing her back, easing her out from behind the couch when Sam comes back with the blankets and tea.

One of the reasons he likes Shannon is because of her quiet strength, and after a couple of minutes, she calms, her hands around the mug of tea, though she hasn't drunk any of it. "I'm just glad you're okay," she says.

Dean nods. What else can he say? He's not about to tell her what happened downstairs. "Everybody's fine," he says, sitting next to her on the couch, letting their knees touch.

"Yeah," Shannon says low, "what about my bar?"

Sam makes a face behind her back. There's a fair amount of damage from the guns, and Sam's blood is still in a tacky puddle on the floor. 

"It's not as bad as it could be," Dean says, which is not a lie, but also doesn't really mean much.

There's a knock at the door, and Sam and Dean share a brief look and spring into action. "Back behind the couch," Dean says, waiting for Shannon to hide before he pulls his gun. 

Sam's at the door, looking through the peephole and shrugging his shoulders. He turns to Dean. Dean comes into the kitchen, on the other side of the door, and nods. Sam pulls it open and when he sees who's at the door, he's not sure what, exactly, to do.

"Dean," Crowley says, glancing at his brother and says, "Sam. Good to see you back on your feet."

"No thanks to you," Dean says, taking a step closer and putting Crowley's eyeball in the sight of his gun.

"Every thanks to me," Crowley says. "You think that angel would have brought him back if I hadn't mentioned Lilith?" Dean hesitates, and Crowley rolls his eyes and pushes Dean's gun aside. "You know the answer is no, don't even pretend. Are you going to let me in or not?"

"What do you want?"

Crowley smiles. "I have a proposition for you."

"No," Dean says. "Whatever it is, no."

Crowley shrugs. "Then I have a soul in there that's mine by binding contract, and I'm here to collect."

Dean glares, but Sam opens the door wide enough for Crowley to slide in past him. Dean lowers his gun, keeping it in hand. He waves it at the kitchen table. "Sit. Talk."

"Shannon," Crowley calls. "Why don't you come join us?"

Shannon comes out from behind the couch, and Dean knows why he likes her when she doesn't look afraid. Resigned, maybe, but not afraid. "Leave these two out of it," she says. "You're here for me, just take me and leave."

Crowley gives her the same smarmy smile that Dean remembers from downstairs. "This is bigger than you now," he says. "You don't know what you've stumbled onto with these two." He nods his head their direction. "Hell's most wanted."

Shannon looks at Dean with fear in her eyes; he thinks it's fear _for_ him, not _of_ him, but he'll never be sure of that. "Is that true, Dean?"

Dean looks at Sam and sighs. "Maybe. I don't really know all the details."

"Well, let me provide some context," Crowley says. "There's a reason it is so vital that you make a deal is that you go to Hell. And let me tell you, Hell is not pretty. A human soul in hell is tortured until it is no longer recognizable. Depending on the soul, this takes some time. Years. Decades, even. Of course, time passes differently in the out-dimensions."

"Out-dimensions?" Sam asks, and Dean glares because jesus, Sam, _not now_ with your nerdy need-to-know tendencies.

"Non-material planes," Crowley answers. "Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Limbo, you get the picture. We like to take our time and enjoy ourselves, so it's roughly a year in hell for every month on Earth – except Heaven, where they _really_ like to take their time. It's a century per month. Greedy bastards."

The thing is, Dean's always expected to go to Hell. He's not an innocent. He does all kinds of things that he's pretty sure are against the commandments or whatever set of rules you're supposed to follow to get into Heaven. Hell, he hadn't even believed in Heaven or God or angels before this. 

"So what's the rush?" Dean asks. "Pretty sure I was slated for the hot place anyway, what's so important that they needed to speed up the timeline?"

Crowley tilts his head at Dean. "Maybe that's why you're a righteous man," he says. "You actually believe your drinking and whoring and brawling mean that you deserve a place in Hell."

"No," Dean says, because he's fairly certain only the sex part of the equation is really against the rules. "But the cheating and stealing and killing, maybe."

"You kill monsters," Crowley says, shrugging. "It's not the same. Their souls aren't pure so it's not considered murder – in the eyes of Heaven, anyway. It's all red tape and details with them."

"Wait, so you're telling me we're slated to go to Heaven. For real." Dean can't believe that, though he can't say it isn't a relief. 

"No, I'm telling you that _you_ are slated to go to Heaven." He looks at Sam. "Sorry, gigantor, but the cards are stacked against you."

Dean's eyes snap to Sam's face. There's no disbelief or hurt there. He really did believe he was going to Hell. But why? Sam's never gotten into the messes Dean has – he doesn't even steal, never has, no matter how hungry he was. He's the reason Dean doesn't have to cheat or steal anymore. He doesn't drink too much, he's not into one night stands, he's the _definition_ of goodness. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes meet his for just a second before he lowers them. "I had a feeling."

Crowley sighs. "So anyway, they need to get you to Hell somehow, and you've got one weak spot."

"Who's _they_?" Dean asks. That's the most important thing, here. He needs to know who they're up against. Once he takes care of _them_ , he can figure out why Sam has a ticket to Hell and how to fix it.

"Lucifer loyalists." Crowley's lip curls in disgust.

There's a ringing silence in the room. Dean's mind is blank for a long moment – Lucifer? It makes sense, there's a Hell, there are demons, of course Satan's real… except… really? "Satan?"

"Sure." Crowley rolls his eyes. "Whatever you call him, if he gets out, you can be sure things won't go well for the human race. And the angels won't help matters much – they don't really care much about humans."

"Oh, and you do?" Sam says, and there's a bitterness in his voice that Dean doesn't like much. 

"I like the status quo," Crowley says. "Earth's a nice place to visit. I enjoy my work, and I'm good at it. I'm not really into what happens once they get down to the pit." He looks at Dean, then Sam, his eyes lingering for a moment, and says, "Listen, stop with the questions. Let me tell you what I propose, and _then_ you can ask."

It feels wrong to just sit at the kitchen table and listen to a demon tell them how it is, but that is exactly what Dean is going to do – and he puts a hand up to keep Sam from protesting, too. Crowley's the one that convinced the angel to bring Sam back, so he gets just a little bit of slack, despite the threats Dean made earlier.

Crowley paces, gesturing to himself for a moment before turning to them.

"Okay, so you know Lucifer's not a demon, right?"

Dean didn't know that, actually – but before he can put together a smart aleck answer, Sam's answering for real, and _of course_ the dork knew. "Yeah, Lucifer's a fallen angel," Sam says, and Dean can't believe that, except now that Sam says it, it does ring a bell or two. 

"Right," Crowley says. "God bitch-slapped him to Hell because he didn't like the newest toy – humans – and he's been in a cage there ever since. Now, he's caused plenty of trouble from that cage of his. Making demons, for starters."

Dean can feel the idiotic look that must be on his face. This is all a bit much to swallow. A quick glance over at Sam makes him feel a little better because Sam looks just as dumbfounded as Dean does.

"Right – so Lucifer is actually locked in a small box in Hell, and he's wreaking some big havoc even under those kinds of restrictions. So you can imagine that should he get _out_ of that little box…"

Crowley circles his hand like he's inviting them to finish the sentence, and all Dean can think of is, "All Hell breaks loose."

That makes Crowley roll his eyes and Sam shake his head, which is a win in the scheme of things, really. 

"Yes, you moron, basically Lucifer brings Hell to Earth." He turns to look Sam in the eye. "You've heard of the Seals?"

Sam struggles with that one for a moment, and then the light bulb goes on. "The Seals of the Apocalypse?" 

"The what of the what, now?" Dean asks, because this conversation is getting disturbingly heavy, especially when it seems to involve him and Sam on some level.

"The Seals," Sam says. "When the seven Seals are broken, the Apocalypse starts. It's Revelations."

"Something like that," Crowley says. "Well, the First Seal is _a righteous man sheds blood in Hell._ "

"Castiel called Dean _The Righteous Man_ ," Sam says, and Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him, but he can't… he would never! How dare they? 

"And you understand now," Crowley says, "why I have a vested interest in keeping you the hell out of Hell. And you, princess," he says, turning to Sam. "Half the demons in hell plan on making you their king, and the other half want your head on a pike."

"I don't understand," Sam says, and he looks genuinely confused, which relieves the sudden spike of fear that'd speared Dean through the heart at that declaration. A little.

"Well, honestly I don't know all of it – I just know that you –" Crowley's eyes settle on Dean, "– are the start of the apocalypse, and you –" they shift to Sam, "– are the end of it."

Why? How? Dean doesn't understand – this is… this isn't them. They're nobodies. 

"Wait," Sam says, "You said only half of Hell wants me. Don't all demons want Lucifer to rise?"

"No," Crowley says. "Think of Lucifer like… Jesus." 

The pained face Sam makes would be funny under any other circumstances.

"Not everyone believes he's even real. And those of us who do are split down the middle. He hates humans. He has more enmity for you than you can even imagine. Now, my livelihood _depends_ on humans. And, if I'm honest, I kind of like you buggers. Humans," he says with a raised eyebrow, "not you two in particular."

"Why?"

Crowley smiles. "Because you're always willing to deal." His eyes slide over to Shannon. "Even the good ones will make a deal for something they care about." They come back to Dean and he raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of which, I'm going to offer you one you can't refuse."

That seems unlikely, in Dean's brief experience with demon deals, but considering Shannon's life is still on the line, he doesn't have any choice but to listen.

"I have information," Crowley says. "I will trade you that information for Shannon's soul and a promise that you will use my information to thwart the apocalypse."

The idea that the Winchesters have any ability at all to thwart the apocalypse would be laughable – except they seem to be irrevocably intertwined with it already. Dean's heart sinks as Crowley keeps talking.

"Killing Azazel was a good start," Crowley says, looking knowingly at Sam. "But there are others who will step up. You need to get rid of them all for Lucifer's plan to fizzle."

"How many demons is it?" Sam asks. _Shit._ Dean's been so caught up in his own roiling thoughts he hasn't been keeping tabs on Sam, and that means he's falling down on his job. He watches Sam carefully as Crowley lays out his list.

"Let's say eleven," Crowley answers. "Lilith, her children – Asmodeus, Dagon, and Ramiel – and her children's children. Don't ask me for names right now, I can't keep them all straight. There are others, but I think they'll fall in line if you cut the head off the snake."

Sam's nodding – whatever he came across in his research, this information seems known to him. "Mammon?" he asks.

"Total slacker," Crowley says, "but yes, he's on the list."

"Who's Mammon?" Dean asks, trying desperately not to freak out because apparently Sam _knows_ all these names and is well-versed in demon genealogy.

"Asmodeus's kid," Crowley says simply, and no one seems to want to elaborate, so Dean doesn't ask.

He checks in on Shannon, who is sitting quietly at the table, looking a little stunned. Reeling from all the information, probably. Sam's brain is already going a million miles an hour, making connections and devising plots, and he looks a little stupid, staring down at the table slightly cross-eyed. Dean looks back at Crowley, who has been watching him almost the whole time, like he knows which one of them is going to be the one who says yea or nay.

"What do you get out of this?" Dean asks. The deal seems too good to be true, honestly, and he can't believe a crossroads demon would make a deal that didn't benefit himself in some major way.

"Have you not been listening? I don't _want_ the apocalypse, or Lucifer being free, or any of that garbage. And if there's a void of power left after Lilith and her kids are all gone, well. Far be it from me to offer my services."

"So you want us to help the future Lucifer to get rid of the current one."

"I am not Lucifer. I'd just be the boss of the place. King, maybe. King of Hell. It's got a nice ring, don't you think?"

Dean considers this. Having the ruler of Hell owe them a favor could come in handy. "You'll give up Hell's claim on Sam, whatever that is?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. "It's a good thing you're pretty. No, Sam's –"

"If we kill all those demons, the claim to my soul will die with them," Sam says, his voice hollow. "Whatever they've got on me ties me directly to one or all of them. It's part of the superpowers gig, I think."

Crowley looks grudgingly impressed. "Not bad, Jolly Green. Your little psychic gifts come directly from Azazel, yes. But it's not a claim on your soul, it's a _stain_. It's not that you have to go to Hell, but that you can't go to Heaven."

Sam won't stop looking down at the table, and the stricken look on his face is enough to make Dean desperate. "There has to be a way to get rid of it," Dean says. 

Crowley shrugs. "Souls are permanent and have a history. You can't erase the history without reshaping the soul."

That sounds dire, and Dean doesn't even really get a chance to examine it before Sam says, "Fine. We'll deal with that later. The important thing is avoiding the apocalypse. We'll make the deal."

"No we won't," Dean says. "Not until I know for sure you're not going to end up in Hell."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "I can't do anything about Sam's soul, and I can't put anything in a contract that I have no control over."

"But –" Dean starts, but Sam slams his hands down on the table and stands up.

"Let it go, Dean," he says, giving Dean the mutinous face he perfected at thirteen. He turns to Crowley, menacing enough that the demon's eyes widen a little in fear. Not much of reaction, not to pissed-off Sam Winchester, but enough that Dean knows he's not unaffected. "Give up Shannon's soul right now, as a show of good faith."

"There's no way –"

"Do it!" Sam shouts, getting right in Crowley's face. "Her soul isn't tied to any of this."

Crowley leans away from Sam, trying to look casual, but he snaps his fingers and a rolled up tube of parchment appears in his hand. He unrolls it so they can all read Shannon's name, and then places it in Shannon's hands. 

It goes up in a burst of flames, and Shannon yelps and shakes out her hands. There's some kind of sigil scorched into her palm. 

"What is it?" Sam demands. Dean controls a shiver. He knows about this side of Sam, has seen it a couple of times with monsters, but it's scary all the same. 

"It means no demon will make a deal with her," Crowley says. "That good enough for you?"

"Yes," Sam says, calming and sitting back down. "Now give us our contract. I'm going to read it all before we sign."

Crowley looks resentfully impressed. He snaps his fingers again and hands a roll of parchment to Sam. "Don't wait too long," Crowley says. "Whoever sent those idiots in the bar isn't going to hold off on another attempt while you quibble over subsection 512b."

~~~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags:** Balthazar  
>  **Chapter notes:** No warnings/triggery material I think, just the boys and Crowley making a deal and the boys going into hiding.

~~~

_Chicago, Illinois, December, 2007_

"Fine," Crowley says, marking up the scroll with his pen and initialing. "I was just trying to build in a little protection."

"We'll take our chances," Sam says, and crosses a couple of lines out.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "For me, you numbskull." 

"What?" Dean asks, unable to keep the threat out of his voice. "Why do you need protection?"

Crowley shakes his head. "Never mind. Probably wouldn't work anyway. Are you almost done?"

It's been almost three hours and Dean is ready to blow his brains out from all the talk about clauses and sub-paragraphs. He doesn't like the way it feels like they're sitting ducks. 

"What about this intellectual property clause?" Sam asks, and just as Crowley starts to say something about marketing, the door is blasted open in a flash of white light.

"Can you get us out of here?" Sam asks, and Dean crosses the kitchen to get to his brother while four weirdos in suits parade in.

"Dean Winchester," the lead one says, one that seems even smarmier than Crowley. "Zachariah, at your service."

Dean highly doubts that.

"Yes," Crowley hisses to Sam, "I can get us out of here if you sign it."

"Wait," Zachariah says lunging for Dean as Sam grabs for Crowley's Sharpie and signs.

The next thing Dean knows, they're standing in the middle of their living room. "Don't say I never did anything for you," Crowley says. He disappears before Sam even gets out his stuttered, "thank you."

"Well, that's a fine –"

"And here's _another_ favor," Crowley says, popping back into existence a second later and handing them a couple of pouches tied up with string. "This will keep the demons off your tail."

"What's in here?" Sam asks, as he starts untying the string to look. 

"Don't, Moose," Crowley says. "They're hex bags that'll keep you off demons' radar. Sorry to say I don't know how to get rid of the angel problem – they haven't walked the Earth in millennia, there's –"

"Ahem," another voice says and Dean whirls around, gun out on instinct.

It's leveled at douchebag that watched too much Miami Vice. He's in jeans and a t-shirt with a velvet smoking jacket, and if his fashion sense didn't make Dean's spidey-sense tingle, the way he ignores Dean's gun makes it go off full-force. A quick glance at Crowley shows him stepping back, putting them between him and the eighties throwback. Dean can only guess whose team the guy is on.

"So you're an angel?" Dean asks, and the new guy tilts his head like he wasn't expecting that.

"Why yes," he answers. "You're better-informed than I was led to believe."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam answers earnestly. "Well, we're quick learners. What do you want?"

"Oh, nothing," the guy says, stepping forward with his hands out. Dean involuntarily takes a step back, and the angel just looks confused, and then raises a finger in an "aha" sort of gesture.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Balthazar. I'm here to help you, because apparently my boss saved _my_ delightfully perky arse by going back in time to save _your_ cute little arses. And since I apparently owe Castiel my life, I've been looking into things while he's…" He looks back and forth between them. "Indisposed." 

Dean has absolutely no idea what that means, but the mention of Castiel earns Balthazar a little leeway, anyway. 

"What do you mean, help us?" Sam asks. 

"What part of that sentence don't you understand?" Balthazar asks, pausing like he might actually let Sam answer. "You don't want the apocalypse, I don't want the apocalypse, hell, your demon friend back there doesn't even want it. I'm here to keep the angels away from you until the threat passes."

That makes Dean's ears perk up. "And how do you do that?" 

He regrets the question as soon as he asks it; Balthazar steps forward again, and presses his fingers into the meat of Dean's thigh. It buzzes and stings, and Dean sucks in a surprised breath because he can deal with pain, just not when it gets sprung on him like that. Half a second later he hears Sam's pained gasp and knows whatever just happened to him got done to his brother, too.

"My handiwork is a little less likely to get lost than those hex bags," Balthazar says. "I've carved protection sigils into your femurs. Don't break your legs, boys, because while you're invisible to angels now, if those sigils get cracked, you'll be back on Heaven's radar, and that is not somewhere you want to be. As an angel, you're invisible to me too, now, so if you need me, you'll have to call."

Stunned silence greets Balthazar, despite his old time showman delivery. Sam is taking a breath to speak when Balthazar winks out of existence – or out of the room, at least. He didn't even leave his number.

After a minute, Dean rolls his eyes at himself because of course angels don't have cell phones; he must mean summoning. Dean hadn't even realized angels could be summoned.

"Time to get on the road, boys," Crowley says. "You may be invisible to angels and demons metaphysically, but they can still follow a trail, and it doesn't take too long to look up a deed or tax record that will lead them right here."

 _Oh no._ Dean turns around slowly, taking in their living room – and Crowley's disappearance by the time he finishes his spin – and realizes… they're going to be homeless again.

There isn't even that much here that he's attached to; the creature comforts are nice, but mostly it's a place where he can share space with his brother. A place he can leave the things that matter to him and know they'll be there when he gets back.

It's not like the Impala hasn't served that purpose for most of his life, but there was something nice about having somewhere stationary; somewhere they might put down roots. Hell, Sam _does_ have roots, he has school and –

 _Shit._ He looks up at Sam, half afraid of what he'll see, but there isn't anything but calculation. Maybe he's not attached to this place the way Dean is. That'd be odd, Dean being more sentimental about the house than Sam.

"The books from the archdiocese are still in the car," Sam says. His pragmatic side always comes out under pressure. "If we grab the boxes of Dad's stuff, a couple duffels' worth of clothes, and a couple of boxes of my rare books, we should be ready to go in twenty minutes."

Dean doesn't want to bring it up but he has to. Sam has people that will come looking for him. "What about school?"

Sam shrugs. "We're on winter break. I'll just email my professor that I have a family emergency and need to take the semester off. They'll forget about me after that."

Despite Sam's casual tone, Dean's heart breaks for him. Sam's been working for this for _years_ and in the space of three hours, his life has been ripped to shreds in every possible way. He wants to apologize, to offer something comforting, though he doesn't know what the hell could comfort someone who has to walk away from his entire life. 

Sam's all business, though, so Dean takes a deep breath and gets with the program. "Yeah, all right. I've got Dad's stuff in my closet. I'll grab that while you get the books, then a couple of duffels and we're gone."

~~~

_Outside Sioux Falls, South Dakota, December, 2007_

Bobby hugs them both as the walk in the door. It's probably just an overreaction to Dean's news about Sam's death, but it makes things awkward from the jump, which sucks.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Bobby says, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "I expected you to stop by a little sooner after…" He glances sideways at Dean, frowning just a little before finishing with, "everything that happened."

"Yeah, sorry, Bobby," Sam says, smoothly sidestepping out from under Bobby's grip and into the kitchen. "School's been keeping me busy."

"Course," Bobby says. "I know that. Just missed you, is all."

Sam smiles at him, lifting the corners of his mouth just a little. "Missed you too."

"So what's up with all this angel and demon stuff? Because I'll tell you, I didn't believe angels existed before your phone call."

"You and me both," Dean says, sticking his head in the fridge and grabbing beers for him and Sam. "But he had the juice. I don't know why he would lie."

"They both did," Sam says. "Balthazar engraved something on our thighbones."

"Who?" Bobby asks, and immediately does a double take and asks, "He did what?!"

~~~

They're probably not completely safe at Bobby's; if the demons or angels know anything about them, they'll know that Bobby is like family. It still _feels_ safe, though, and Dean sleeps soundly, despite the craziness that's become his life the last two days.

He wakes up when Bobby comes through to make coffee. He got the couch because they roshamboed for the spare bedroom and Sam has some weird mystical power that means he always wins, even when Dean doesn't throw scissors. They've got to find a better way to decide this kind of thing. 

"Morning," he says, rubbing his eyes. 

Bobby grunts, not fully coherent until his second cup, Dean knows. He fries up some bacon and eggs, though, and when Dean's got his mouth full, he comes in with the questions, like he's been waitressing his whole life. 

"So you and Sam, you worked things out?"

Dean swallows his mouthful of bacon around the lump in his throat, following it with half of his mug of coffee. "Mostly," he answers. "Things've got too weird to really think about that."

He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He knows, and he's sure Bobby'll ask in a minute, about some demon's preoccupation with Sam that probably caused this too, and Dean's world is tipped upside-down for the millionth time in two days.

"So, none of this angel crap has to do with –"

"We don't know." Dean cuts him off viciously. He only just started thinking this through himself, he can't talk about it with Bobby until he's settled it in his own mind first. "And I don't care. I just… I need him to be safe, okay? Bobby, when I saw him on the floor –"

Dean chokes. The image is still Technicolor in his brain, he can see it like it happened ten minutes ago, and feel the way his whole body revolted at the idea. "I thought I was dying too. What would I do without him?"

Tears have their way of sneaking up on Dean. He never knows when it's going to happen, and it's always at the worst time, always in front of people he would rather not know he even has tear ducts. 

"I know, son," Bobby says softly, getting up from the table and turning his back on Dean while he putters around the kitchen. Dean's glad for the reprieve, and wipes the tears away, locking himself back down. He does have something he wants Bobby's help with.

When Bobby comes back with a plate of toast and some butter, Dean grabs one off the top and says, casually, "Crowley said Sam can't go to Heaven."

He'd caught Bobby mid-sip and slaps his back as he hacks the coffee out of his lungs. "Did he say why?"

"Yeah. Said Sam has a stain on his soul."

"Sam? Straight A, wildflower-picking, 'never met a puppy I didn't like' Sam?"

Dean smiles. He knows that Sam isn't all sweetness and light, but he's more of that than he is the scary guy that can set demons back on their heels. Then he thinks about the fact that Sam can set demons back on their heels and wonders when that even happened. "He's got some darkness in him, Bobby. There's still some secrets around what he and Dad did with that yellow-eyed demon. It scares the hell out of me."

There's a telltale creak overhead that means Sam's vertical and likely to be joining them soon. Dean turns a pleading look on Bobby, and Bobby just says, "I told you everything I know, kid. You're going to have to get it out of Sam."

By the time Sam's clomping down the stairs, the conversation's moved over to how they're going to manage a complete coup d'état of Hell.

"I have some ideas about that," Sam says, filling a plate and sitting down at the table. "We can't pick them off one by one because they'll start to get suspicious. We don't want them going into hiding, or ganging up on us."

Bobby pales visibly. "You're talking eleven demons, Sam. In the same room at the same time. And not ordinary demons, either – the _first_ demon and her kids. Hell's royal family."

"Yeah," Sam says simply. "Look, if we start picking them off, they'll figure out what's going on. It's better to do it in one fell swoop."

Dean's not feeling copacetic about that plan, but he wants to hear the rest of Sam's ideas before they start hashing things out. "Okay, what else?"

"Well," Sam says, pointing his fork at Bobby, "we know how to summon them – and Crowley gave us all of their names. But there are still three things we need."

Bobby nods solemnly. "Meatsuits."

"Yeah," Sam says, looking down at his plate like the crusts of his toast are the most interesting thing in the room. "Plus a way to limit the summoning so they land exactly where we want them."

A shiver goes down Dean's spine as he realizes this is how Sam and Dad killed the yellow-eyed demon. Sam is tweaking the plan because he's done it once and it worked; but not perfectly. 

If the demons have to possess people when summoned, and there wasn't a limit on how close they'd have to show up… yellow-eyes must have ridden in on some innocent. Sam must've killed an innocent man or woman because he didn't lock down the summoning spell all the way, and shit, Dean never even asked him about it. No wonder Sam was so messed up. Maybe that's what let it get the drop on Dad. 

"Where do we get meatsuits from?" Dean asks. "Because we're not just going to use innocent people."

Sam nods. "No, I've thought about this. If they can possess humans, it stands to reason that they could possess monsters that used to be humans. Vampires. Werewolves. Shifters."

"What?" Dean asks. That's even more dangerous. "So now we're handing demons super-powered meatsuits? And we're collecting eleven of them? How do we do that?"

"We hunt," Sam says. "And keep them locked up until we have enough and we're ready to summon."

This seems like a spectacularly bad plan. Dean doesn't have anything better, though, and Sam seems calm and confident, so he should probably trust him. He still hates everything about this, though. 

"So what's the third thing?" Bobby asks.

Sam finally looks up, meeting Bobby's eyes. "A way to kill them."

Damn. Dean hadn't even thought of that. The Colt only has four bullets left, and any way you slice it, that's not enough to kill eleven demons. Damn, damn, damn.

Bobby flaps his lips, nodding his head in thought. "Looks like it's research time."

"Yeah," Dean says, "but we have to get out of here. We can't risk bringing those assholes to your doorstep." Bobby opens his mouth to complain, but Dean keeps going before he can get the words out. "We do have about ten boxes of books for your library, though."

"Including _Ars Demonica_ ," Sam says, with just a touch too much excitement. "But I'm going to read it first."

"Hmm," Bobby says thoughtfully. "Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. I've got a place where I copy all my new acquisitions. It's not much, but it's got a photocopier, a bed, internet, and a stock of canned goods like a bomb shelter. You could lay low for a while, get yourselves off the grid, and make me copies of all those books."

"Copies?" Sam asks. "You have photocopies of your entire library?" Sam's eagerness has tipped over into glassy-eyed devotion, so Dean nudges him with his knee.

"Bobby Singer, paranoid bastard. Nice to meet you."

Dean chuckles. It's smart, it's just… more paranoid than he's ever known Bobby to be. He wonders what the hell Bobby's seen that it makes sense to have photocopies of literally every book he owns.

"So anyway, we should hit the road. Thanks for breakfast, Bobby."

~~~

_The wilds of northern Minnesota, December, 2007_

The shelter just proves that Dean had no clue how paranoid Bobby was. It's in the middle of two hundred acres of forest, and it's a decent trek in from where they have to leave Baby parked in the snow. She's far enough in from the road to be hidden from anybody passing by, but they cover her with a white tarp anyway, because Bobby's paranoia is catching a little bit. 

The shelter itself is underground, lead-lined and spare. Invisible, if they pull down the lean-to that covers the ladder going into it. Dean hadn't really caught the fact that Bobby had said there was "a" bed, just one, though it's understandable because why would Bobby need two beds? It just means they'll sleep in shifts. They have sleeping bags, though, and while Dean's not claustrophobic, he gets the feeling this place might be a bit much after a while. It's too cold to spend a night outside, but he could probably get some sleep during the day, or build himself a snow cave. They'll have the time.

The place is decently large; racks and racks of copied books in manila envelopes, all labeled in Bobby's hideous scrawl, a small mountain of copier paper and a huge cabinet of office supplies, a separate pantry that, true to Bobby's word, looks stocked for a nuclear winter. Electricity's from a generator, internet from a satellite hook-up (and Dean'll figure out where the hell it is later, because it's nowhere he can see at first glance), and there's an interesting ventilation and heating system combo that also seems to collect water, somehow. It's not drinkable, but just having it on hand to wash up is a comfort in a place like this. 

Sam starts photocopying almost immediately – he has a real hard-on for that one book – and Dean settles them into the place, trudging back and forth to the car for the supplies Bobby loaded into Baby while they were showering and getting their stuff together. He leaves most of the books; they're heavy and it's a hike, and it'll take them a couple days just to copy the first box. There's real food and beer, though, and it's not like Dean's opposed to a diet of canned chili and MREs, but a sandwich here or there will make the first couple weeks seem less dire.

After everything is in and settled, Dean walks the property. It's densely wooded, barbed wire fences along the property lines. No neighbors as far as the eye can see, and the only tracks in the snow besides his are rabbit and deer. Good to know they can hunt for game if they end up stuck here, and good to know there's no sneaking up on them in this snow.

It's quiet. Dean stands outside in the cold and just breathes. He misses civilization, the convenience and the people, the endless entertainment and mindless ease and direction to his life. It's different out here. 

Bobby's the one that taught them everything they know about hunting, camping, and surviving, and the first, most important thing he taught them was that they had to pay attention – all the time. No letting things slide into a routine they didn't think about. Dean keeps that in mind; he likes routine but it's too easy to stop paying attention. Schedules are okay. They get you places on time. Routines make you predictable and sloppy. 

"Hey."

Dean turns around to see his brother trudging through the knee-deep snow. "Hey. How's the shelter?"

Sam shrugs. "Fine. I realized after making double copies of forty pages that I should just make one full copy and then copy that. Then I got so annoyed with myself I had to leave."

Dean laughs. He probably never would have figured that out. "Find anything else in there? I didn't wander all the way down to the back."

"Yeah, I pulled out a couple books from the library that I want to read, and there's a second pantry in the back that's full of hunting and magic crap. All kinds of weird shit back there. Bobby has eighteen different kinds of blood in a refrigerator."

 _Eighteen?_ Dean can't help the grimace. That's crazy. He's reevaluating his mental picture of Bobby. He wonders if he's going to be that kind of hunter some day, and hopes the hell not. Bobby's obviously seen way more shit than he's ever told them. 

"Well, at least we're prepared for anything that comes our way." Dean turns back toward the shelter. "Going for a walk?"

"Nah," Sam answers, taking a huge step and levering himself back around. "Too much snow."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and follows Sam back inside.

~~~

Lunch is canned chili and beer, and realizing there's no bathroom. It makes sense, there's no running water, clearly no sewage. It's not that Dean minds taking a dump in the woods, except that it's below freezing right now, and he'd really rather not freeze his nuts off.

"There's got to be an outhouse," Sam says. "We must have missed it."

"What, below ground? They're bad enough _above_ ground. You know Bobby, man, you know he just took it outside. I bet this place is covered in crap when the snow melts."

"Gross, Dean."

"Yeah it is, but it's also true."

"No, it's not. I'm emailing Bobby to ask."

Dean rolls his eyes. There isn't an outhouse, that much he's sure of. There's probably an area of the property Bobby took it to, but they're going to have to find their own anyway, especially in the dead of winter. And he's not dragging his ass across the entire property so he can keep it away from the shelter; it's too damn cold for that. 

The part that concerns him, really, is he's just realized he's signed up to spend months in a place with his brother, who sweats in below zero weather, and there's no shower. He's going to regret this hardcore in about a week, and then they'll be stuck here for another few months. 

He decides to drive Baby into town at least every couple of days for a while. He can shovel out the driveway and just build up a snowbank next to the road when they come in to cover their tracks. That seems a little extra paranoid out here, where he's not sure anyone else even lives, but then he thinks about Sam's glassy eyes when he was lying on the floor at Shannon's bar and firms his resolve. 

The whole point of this was to get so far off the grid, angels and demons wouldn't be able to find them. Laying low is part of the package, and it's not like he hasn't done it before, it's just longer and more careful this time.

"What're you thinking about?" Sam asks. "You seem broody."

Dean takes a deep breath and shakes it off. "Thinking 'bout how it's going to be a long couple months living with your chili farts."

Sam rolls his eyes, but he's grinning when he says, "Jerk."

"Bitch."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two outtakes about Cas before the next chapter.
> 
> Cas POV: [What happens to Castiel after he goes back to Heaven.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71841252)
> 
> Cas POV: [Jailbreak from Heaven!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71842290)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Notes:** No warnings or triggery material

~~~

_The wilds of northern Minnesota, April, 2008_

Dean is going to lose it. He understands, theoretically, that they're on the run from angels and demons and he can't get careless. He gets that. But Sam is a hormonal teenage girl sometimes, and he just has to get out, two feet of snow be damned.

He'd been good; he dug them out that first day so they could get into town if they really needed to, but he hadn't left. He didn't leave for almost three weeks. It'd been three long weeks of whores' baths and standing in the freezing cold while waiting for Sam's horrendous farts to dissipate. 

He'd found a tree that was comfortable to lean against while taking a dump, and he'd trained himself how to wait until the last second so it was a fairly quick process and he wasn't spending half an hour with his ass hanging out in the cold.

But then. Then he'd had a wet dream, and of the smells that infused the shelter, that one was more embarrassing than any other, and he'd gathered up their clothes and Sam and gone into town.

They crossed the state border before picking a one-stoplight town to stay in for the night. Once he'd gotten behind the wheel, he hadn't wanted to stop driving, so on they went, windows cracked because they were pretty rank after three weeks with no showers, and singing along with his Metallica tape at the top of their lungs.

He dropped Sam at a motel to check in and went to find the laundromat, grocery, and liquor stores as well as anywhere they might get pizza, burgers, or tacos. They didn't move around town together; they were too recognizable as a unit. Individually, they were just drifters.

Sam went liquor shopping and picked up pizza for lunch while Dean showered and took his time jacking off. Dean did their laundry in his boxers while Sam shopped for supplies and brought back burgers for dinner.

The next day he dropped Sam back off at the liquor store and he went to the grocery store to stock up on cereal and sandwich fixings. 

It was the best two days he'd had in a long time.

Three weeks is about their limit. One or the other of them snaps and they just know it's time to climb into the car. Except for the couple of weeks of heavy snow when digging out the car became more trouble than it was worth. It was seven and a half weeks before Dean was more stir crazy than exhausted at the idea of shoveling a quarter mile-long driveway out from under three feet of snow.

Eventually the cabin fever got them, though, and Sam'd volunteered to help, obviously just as stir crazy as Dean, and when they were finally done, sweaty and tired and all the rest, they only hopped two towns over to grab a motel. Quick showers and clean sheets were a lot like heaven at that point.

They've got the internet, so in a weird way, it's not as disorienting as it might be. Dean's got his porn, Sam pirates his movies, they both try to ignore the cases that are too far away. 

They do design a monster cage. Sam writes and rewrites the summoning spell. Dean spends hours reading shit about demons, trying to figure out how to kill them. That's the less enjoyable kind of research – except when he stumbles upon old hunters' journals and reads about killing monsters back in the 1800s. That's pretty cool. 

Demons were pretty rare back then, too, so while there are a couple of new exorcisms for Sam to consider working into his own, there isn't anything about killing them, and the very idea seems laughable. Mostly he's hoping Sam is going to put together a bunch of ideas and create something new that's more than the sum of its parts, like his exorcism.

They're back on their three week rotation, except Dean's spoiled himself and worn clean boxers every day and he is almost positive he caught Sam jacking off while he was trying to fall asleep last night, and he's just… tired of being in here. He needs some time around people that aren't blood related.

Dean pushes his latest book aside and says, "Laundry?" Because honestly, they've seen a total of seventeen people between them in the last five months, and Dean's willing to be just a little bit reckless. 

Sam looks up and for half a second, Dean thinks he might say no – he's got an annoyed bitchface on that Dean used to get all the time when he interrupted Sam's studying. Then he puts his book down and says, "Yeah, sure."

They pack up the laundry – just two loads, they'd packed awful quick back in Chicago – and sling them over their shoulders as the head out to the car, packing the lean-to down nice and tight just in case.

Sam's leading the way and Dean keeps his head down – the trail is overgrown and he's nearly tripped a few times – until Sam drops the laundry bag and grabs his gun. "Who are you?" he says, loud and on the offensive. 

When Dean looks up and sees Castiel standing calmly next to the Impala, he puts a hand on Sam's arm. "It's Castiel," he says, moving to get in front of Sam. 

Sam elbows him, though, and says, "This is Castiel?"

Castiel's eyes narrow, but he nods his head curtly at Sam. "It's so great to meet you," Sam says, surging forward to offer his hand before Dean can even remind him that angels don't do that sort of thing.

Castiel takes Sam's hand between both of his, though, and for a moment, Dean thinks he's going to bless Sam or say a prayer over him or something. Then he says, "Resurrection suits you," which is about the weirdest thing Dean has ever heard, but as Castiel isn't wrong, so Dean lets it slide.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asks.

Castiel tilts his head. "Waiting for you."

Dean rolls his eyes so hard they hurt. "Obviously. But why?"

The angel tilts his head even further to the side. It's a curious thing, makes him look like a dog listening to something outside the range of human hearing. Dean suddenly wonders if he's reading their minds or something, trying to pick out some frequency from their thoughts because he doesn't understand their words.

"Balthazar indicated that the host is searching for you."

"We're fine," Dean says, not particularly interested in anything any angel has to say. "Balthazar zapped us with some angel-blocking symbols."

"Sigils," Sam corrects him, and Dean rolls his eyes again. At this rate, he's going to sprain them.

"And that keeps them from tuning in to the frequency of your soul," Castiel says. "But they are taking vessels and walking the Earth. They are meticulous and implacable, and eventually one of them will find you."

Walking the Earth? Seriously? What is this, that Kung Fu show with David Carradine? "I doubt it," Dean says. It'd be pretty weird for the to walk this particular two hundred acres of northern Minnesota.

"Don't doubt it," Castiel says. "Angels don't need to eat or sleep. They never waver from their purpose. Eventually an angel will walk down this road and find you."

Something in his voice sends a shiver down Dean's spine. He thought they were safe. "What do the angels want with us, anyway?"

Castiel's eyes shift to his, holding him in place with an intense stare. "You are the Righteous Man. Heaven's warrior."

Dean's really not sure how to process that; the idea is laughable. Sam turns to him with bulging eyes, though, and while Dean wants to reassure him, he has a feeling the angel will just shoot him down no matter what he says. "I thought you said I was the one that _started_ the apocalypse." Things are a little fuzzy from those moments around Sam's death, but he remembers that being the gist of why he went back in time in the first place.

"Yes, and the Righteous Man, who breaks the First Seal, is also the one who will end the apocalypse. He is Heaven's warrior."

"So we don't let the First Seal get broken," Sam says. "That's easy, right? Just keep Dean out of Hell." He actually grins at Castiel, like it's some kind of big joke.

The thing is, Dean dreams about that night more often than not. Sam's glassy eyes haunt him and he wakes up in a cold sweat even now, months later. He can't forget the feeling of his entire life being ripped away from him, the way he felt empty – hollowed out – when Sam was gone. 

He could get himself killed, probably, if anything happened to Sam. Not suicide. Something simple; a sloppy hunt. But if Castiel is as set against the apocalypse as he seems, then why not take advantage of that to guarantee he won't be the last Winchester standing?

"Well, yeah," Dean says, and the smile slips off Sam's face when he hears it. "Just keep Sammy alive and we're golden."

"Excuse me?" Castiel says, his eyes narrowing in a way that makes Dean swallow hard. He's only seen a small amount of the power angels wield, but it's scary as hell, and he's playing a dangerous game here.

"You heard me," Dean says, putting on every last ounce of bravado. "Sam stays alive, and I don't go to Hell. Simple. You protect him, keep your eyes on him 24/7, and we're good. No deals, no Righteous Man in Hell, no breaking the First Seal."

Castiel looks back and forth between them, like he's not sure whether or not to take Dean seriously. "Dean," Sam chides, giving him the 'come on' look. Dean just shakes his head.

"I'm dead serious." He ducks his head to capture Castiel's eyes and he holds them. "You keep Sam alive, or I'll find some way to make that deal."

Castiel nods his head once. Solemnly. "If that is what it takes."

Dean plasters on a fake grin. "Great!" he says, walking around the car to throw his duffel of dirty laundry into it. "Then let's get the hell out of here."

"Dean!" Sam says, disapproval clear in the forehead wrinkles. It doesn't matter, though. He's got his bargain, and it's not nearly so altruistic as it sounds. It's utterly selfish, keeping Sam alive, and he has a feeling the angel knows it, even if Sam doesn't. 

"Do we shake on it?" Dean asks, because he's fairly certain something's required to make it official. 

"If you would like," Castiel says. "I have given my word, but I understand humans require a physical display of agreement. A kiss is standard."

Dean puts his hands up. "No, that's…" He shakes his head. "I'll take your word for it."

"C'mon," he says to Sam. "Let's get the rest of our stuff."

They go back for one last load – the rest of their clothes, all their weapons (with a few additions from Bobby's armory), and a handful of books and photocopies. It all gets thrown in a pile in the trunk and Dean has never loved the sound of Baby more than when he guns it out of the dirt track that serves as a driveway to the underground library.

Castiel is in the back seat, staring at Sam. Sam's taking it well, but it might just be that he hasn't noticed. Their windows are down and Sam's got his head out the window like a dog. Castiel is staring at him, not even blinking.

Dean's debating with himself how literal an angel of the lord might be, and what else he might be able to get him to do before Sam takes pity on him and explains metaphors.

Dean heads south; they need a little warmth in their lives. They settle in and drive, turning the music up and letting the miles pile up behind them.

~~~

Two days later, Dean's about to kill himself just so he doesn't have to deal with Sam asking Cas every question he's ever had in his entire life. At first, it was cute, Sam's little crush on the angel. The way he breathlessly hung on every word. It was Dean that shortened Castiel to Cas, but it wasn't until Sam said it that the angel seemed to think it was okay.

After those first two days it was mostly boring, though at least some of it was informative. Dean's not immune to wondering how humans came into being, whether or not the Bible is true, or where monsters come from. 

But now it's down to the more esoteric and random questions that just make Dean roll his eyes and turn up the music, questions like where ideas come from, what an angel's daily routine is like, the nature of the universe. 

Cas answers every question in the same monotone and seems to have no reaction to any of them – except the way he seems less… _hard_ when he looks at Sam, like he might respect him just a little bit.

That's okay, at least. He wants Cas to like Sam. He wants Cas to protect Sam with everything he's got, and in Dean's experience, it helps if you like the person. 

The angel seems restless, despite sitting in the backseat, unmoving. There's something furtive about him, like he wants to be somewhere else. Dean has an uncharacteristic pang of guilt; who knows what Cas is supposed to be doing, and Dean has now tethered him to his brother until his death. It's probably a drop in the bucket in the lifetime of an angel, though, and Dean decides it's probably worth it to make sure the Earth keeps spinning.

"Maybe you should ask Cas questions about our monster prison," Dean says, because if they're going to be stuck with Mr. Roboto forever, they can at least get his insight on their master plan to stop the apocalypse. 

"Monster prison?" Cas asks, perking up. "Why would you build such a thing?"

"We need to kill the top tier of demon royalty," Sam says, "So we're going to summon them all at once and we need –"

"Vessels," Cas says. "Expendable vessels. Commendable."

Sam beams and tells Cas the rest of the plan while Dean drives. Cas is silent, listening to the whole thing before commenting again.

"And how do you plan on killing them?" 

Sam shakes his head. "That's the problem. We only have four bullets left for the Colt, and there's eleven demons."

Cas seems to consider this and Sam raptly watches him think. Dean tries to keep himself from throwing up or rolling his eyes so hard they fall out. "Shooting them is unwise at any rate. Too much room for error. A spell or magical object, something instantaneous, would be better."

"I was thinking that too," Sam says, craning his neck to grin at Cas in the back seat. Dean rolls his eyes again. How much longer is this going to go on? 

"The spell will likely have to be created for the occasion. We will need a witch, and a powerful one."

Sam shrugs. "We don't know any witches we haven't killed. If they're on our radar, they're probably evil."

Cas makes a thoughtful humming noise, which is decidedly the most human thing Dean has heard him do yet. "There are good witches," he says, "but none so powerful as this. Give me a moment, I will set Balthazar on finding one whose services can be bought."

"Wait –" Dean says, but Cas is gone before the word is out of his mouth. "Damn it," he says, annoyed. "He's supposed to keep eyes on you 24/7, he's blowing off –"

"I have returned," Castiel says from the back seat. "Lest you think I was shirking my duties." He meets Dean's eyes in the rearview. "I would have been back sooner, but I had to fly back to where I left you and catch up to the car. Your protection sigils prevent me from flying directly to your side."

Dean hadn't thought about that – what if he leaves again and Sam needs help? What if –

"I promised not to leave Sam's side," Cas says, as if he's reading Dean's mind. The idea makes Dean shift in his seat uneasily. "I certainly will not for more than a second or two at a time, so I will be able to locate him immediately. And certainly for nothing other than requirements for his protection."

Dean settles back in, keeping his silence. Cas better keep his word. If anything happens to Sammy, Dean's going to burn down Heaven to get his revenge. 

"You can also pray to me to let me know your location."

Dean laughs. "We don't pray."

He turns to share the laugh with Sam, but Sam avoids his eyes. "Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head. 

Dean can't believe it. After everything he's seen… Sam prays? "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, Dean, I pray. I pray every day, and have for a long time." Sam turns to him, defiant like only a bratty little brother can be. Like he's daring Dean to make fun of his choices. 

Huh. Well, Dean's not going to judge. He learned that the hard way when Sam was sixteen. "The things you learn about a guy," he says, letting his eyes settle back on the road. "So what, you say three Hail Marys and give coordinates?"

"The prayer should be directed to me," Cas says. "Otherwise anyone could hear it. Prayers directed to a particular angel are private."

"Private like, nobody listens because it's polite," Dean asks, "or private as in NSA-level encryption?"

Cas makes a pained face that Dean knows means he only gets about half of what Dean's saying at any given time. Apparently keeping up with pop culture isn't high on the angels' to do list. "If the prayer is address to me, it resonates with my frequency. Other angels are different frequencies. They cannot hear it."

"Are you sure it's not hackable?" Dean asks. "Because I gotta be honest, that doesn't sound like a secure channel to me."

"Dean," Sam says. "I'm sure if Cas says it's private, it's private."

"Thank you, Sam," Cas says. "But I understand Dean's concern. I simply don't believe angels are quite… inventive enough to try such a thing."

Dean appreciates the honesty. If all the angels were like Cas, Dean would buy that. Balthazar was definitely not like Cas, though, and Dean has a feeling the higher ups might be a little more savvy. "How about we use our regular code?" Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes but nods. 

"All right," Dean says, putting the blinker on, because the Red Hat Café has one of the best bacon cheeseburgers in Oklahoma, and he's not missing that for anything. "It's basically nonsense talk, just that the caller is going to give four numbers. First two are latitude, next two are longitude. Got it?" 

"Of course," Castiel answers. "Though I fail to see how that is remotely like a code. Besides, should another angel 'listen in' it's not the words they would hear, but the intention. So as long as you are thinking to me where you are, they would be able to understand, despite the code."

"Way to make a guy feel secure," Dean says, but before he can even really get rolling on his bitching, Cas says, "It doesn't matter. They believe I am incapacitated. They assume no one is praying to me," and Sam turns around with big eyes full of concern. 

"What happened to you in Heaven, Cas?"

Dean remembers Crowley saying something about time being funny there – a century per month, was it? And Cas was gone five months, so that's – 

"I was imprisoned for my disobedience. I might have simply acquiesced and accepted the punishment, having saved my entire flight of angels from destruction, but Balthazar was curious enough to investigate further. He is certain now that the archangels are complicit in the plans for the apocalypse, so he exacted my escape. No one other than he and I know I am not in prison right now."

"So you were in prison for five hundred years up there?" Sam's face is scrunched up and Dean thinks he might actually cry out of sympathy. Sam's always felt things a little deeper than most, but angels are dickbags; Cas gets a temporary pass because he did, eventually, save Sam's life, but he wasn't planning on it, and that's a huge black mark in Dean's book.

"Yes," Cas says simply. "A long time to be cut off from the host."

"Cut off?" Dean asks. "What do you mean, cut off?"

"The host are in constant communication telepathically – an all-encompassing hum that is the background of an angel's existence. I'm incomplete without it, but having been cut off, they are unaware I've escaped so it's a silence I have learned to live with." 

"I'm sorry, Cas, that's not right." Sam is clearly upset on the angel's behalf – something Dean's seen in Sam before, that empathy for others and the anger underneath at the injustice. It's why Sam's a better person than he is. He just doesn't care, at least not about angels and their bullshit. 

"So what did Balthazar find out?" Dean asks, just to short-circuit Sam's broody thinkiness. "What are the archangels doing?"

If they're trying to stop the apocalypse on the demon side, it can't hurt to know what the angels are bringing to the mix.

"They are arranging human love matches. I don't understand why, but the cupids' orders have been tampered with."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate POV: [Sam adjusting to Cas being his guardian angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71844051).

**Author's Note:**

> This is it folks, there is no more fully written fic. Everything I have for this fic is hanging out here. It is now out of my brain and in the public domain, do with it what you will. Pleased for you to write more, critique it, make other fanworks, whatever. You have free reign. I love it (despite my interest waning) and I hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable for anyone reading.
> 
> There are notes and recordings and a huge Wincestiel-ish sex scene in the later chapters of the add-ons. If you haven't been reading them all along, [that work is here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459/chapters/71833680).


End file.
